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INTRODUCTION 



ENGLISH LITERATURE 



SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY, 



ANNOTATED SELECTIONS 

Illustrating the Successive Periods and Principal Authors 



F. V. N. PAINTER, A.M., D.D. 

Professor of Modern Languages and Literature in Roanoke College, 

Author of A History of Education, Introduction to American 

Literature, History of English Literature, Poets of the 

South, Guide to Literary Criticism, Etc., Etc. 



REVISED AND ENLARGED 



SIBLEY & COMPANY 

BOSTON CHICAGO 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 

Two Ooi*< Received 

AUG 13 »906 

GoDyrifiiit Entry 
CLASS iL XXc. No. 




Copyright, 1894, 
By LEACH, SHEWELL & SANBOKN. 

Copyright, 1906, 
By SIBLEY & COMPANY. 



Xcirfociati IDrcsst 
Berwick & Smith Co., Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 



PREFACE. 

After twelve years, during which the present work has won 
and maintained an honorable place in the schools of our coun- 
try, the author and publishers have thought a thorough revi- 
sion desirable. It will be found on examination that important 
changes and, it is hoped, notable improvements have been made. 
No effort has been spared to keep the work fully abreast with 
the rapid educational development of our day. 

The general plan of the original work, which has been too 
cordially approved to justify a change, has been substantially 
retained. While in the revision the matter introductory to 
each period has been somewhat extended, it will be seen that 
the chief emphasis is still laid on the great representative writ- 
ers. In addition to the considerable fulness of biographical 
and critical detail with which they have been treated, charac- 
teristic selections, with explanatory notes, are again introduced. 
In this way the student is supplied with a convenient means, 
not only of learning about literature, but of studying it himself. 

In this connection, attention, may be called to a few alter- 
ations that have been made. The use of paragraph titles will 
be welcomed, it is believed, both by teacher and student. In a 
few cases the former selections have been replaced by better 
ones, and all the illustrative pieces, with the explanatory notes, 
as in the author's " Introduction to American Literature," have 
b^en transferred to a separate second part. Several important 
authors of the nineteenth century — De Quincey, Macaulay, 
Browning, and Carlyle — have been added for special study. 
It is hoped that these changes and additions will be regarded 
as increasing the value of the book. 

The vast extent of the field of English literature, as stated 
in the former preface, makes it a difficult subject to teach, 
v 



vi PREFACE. 

There are two mistakes which may be made. The first is an 
ambitious effort to cover too much ground — an effort that in- 
evitably issues in hazy and barren results. The student is con- 
fused by the multitude of often unimportant details. The other 
mistake, far too common in this day of educational science, is 
the study of only a few authors wholly detached from their 
place in the development of English literature. By this one- 
sided method, the student is deprived of a comprehensive view 
of the gradual and marvelous development of English literature, 
without which no single author can be adequately understood 
and appreciated. 

It is confidently believed that the use of the present work will 
avoid both these mistakes. The representative authors, who 
include twenty of the greatest names in English literature, are 
here studied in their several periods and their various social 
surroundings. They are seen, on the one hand, among the 
conditions that made them possible, and, on the other hand, 
they are viewed in the light of their influence on the subse- 
quent course of literary development. In this manner, the stu- 
dent's knowledge becomes, at the same time, comprehensive, 
definite, and duly co-ordinated. 

It will be observed that each period closes with suggestions 
for further reading and study. When there is time for it, 
and also a good library at command, the use of these sugges- 
tions, as every competent teacher will recognize, may be made 
very profitable. These suggestions are intended to enlarge the 
student's knowledge of the subject, and to give him a taste for 
independent investigation. At the same time, illustrative read- 
ings and original essays will give interest and variety to class- 
room work. 

In conclusion, the author may be permitted to express his 
sense of the importance of the study of English literature. It 
is a proud intellectual heritage. An acquaintance with its 
leading facts and its principal authors is generally regarded as 
an indispensable part of a liberal education. But as an edu- 
cating instrumentality its value is not so generally recognized. 
Yet scarcely any other study is so well adapted, in the hands 
of a skilful teacher, to awaken the mind of the young student; 



PREFACE. vii 

and as he appropriates its varied and profound thought, and 
sympathizes with its multiform and refined sentiment, he is 
gradually lifted to the heights of culture attained by the Eng- 
lish race through centuries of struggle. 

F. V. N. Painter. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 



Introduction 



I. 

Old English, or Anglo-Saxon Period, 500-1066 .... 7 

II. 

Middle English, or Formative Period, 1066-1400 .... 18 

Chaucer 25 

III. 

First Creative Period, 1558-1625 35 

Edmund Spenser 47 

Francis Bacon 56 

William Shakespeare 63 

IV. 

Civil War, or Puritan Period, 1625-1660 ....... 77 

John Milton 85 

V. 

First Critical Period, 1 660-1 745 97 

John Dryden in 

Joseph Addison 121 

Alexander Pope 129 

VI. 

Age of Johnson, 1745-1800 . 141 

Samuel Johnson 151 

Oliver Goldsmith 161 

Robert Burns 171 

VII. 

Age of Scott, 1800-1832 187 

Sir Walter Scott 202 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Lord Byron 212 

William Wordsworth 222 

Thomas De Quincey 234 

VIII. 

The Victorian Age, 1832-1906 249 

Thomas Babington Macauley 275 

Robert Browning 283 

Thomas Carlyle 292 

Alfred Tennyson 303 

PART SECOND. 

Annotated Selections Illustrating the Foregoing Periods 

and Authors 317 



I 

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ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

INTRODUCTION. 

i. Literature. — In its largest sense, literature includes all 
the written records of man. It presents the thoughts, emotions, 
and achievements of the human family. Its vast extent ren- 
ders it absolutely impossible for any person to become acquaint- 
ed with more than a small part of it. The greatest libraries of 
the world now contain more than a million volumes, to which 
thousands are added every year. 

2. National Literature. — This general or universal liter- 
ature is made up of national literatures. A national liter- 
ature is composed of the literary productions of a particular 
nation. After reaching a state of civilization, every nation ac- 
cumulates a body of writings that express the thoughts, feel- 
ings, and achievements of its people. Thus we have the 
lietrature of Greece, of Rome, of Germany, of England, and 
of other nations, both ancient and modern. 

3. English Literature. — English literature embraces the 
writings of the people of Great Britain. It covers a period of 
about twelve hundred years ; and five hundred years ago it had 
in Chaucer one of the world's great writers. It shares in the 
greatness of the English people. It combines French vivacity 
with German depth; and in its scope, variety, and excellence 
it is second to no other. No department of literature has been 
left uncultivated. Poets have sung in sweet and lofty strains; 
novelists have portrayed every phase of society ; orators have 
convinced the judgment and moved the heart; scientists have re- 
vealed the laws of the physical world ; historians have elo- 
quently told of the past; and philosophers have deeply pon- 
dered the mysteries of existence. 

4. Molding Influences. — Literature is influenced or de- 



2 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

termined by whatever affects the thought and feeling of a 
people. Among the most potent influences that determine the 
character of a literature are race, epoch, and surroundings. 
This fact should be clearly understood, for it renders a 
philosophy of literature possible. We cannot fully understand 
any work of literature, nor justly estimate its excellence, with- 
out an acquaintance with the national traits of the writer, 
the general character of the age in which he lived, and the 
physical and social conditions by which he was surrounded. 
The relation between literature and history is very intimate. 

a. Race. — The human family is divided into several races, 
which are distinguished from one another by different physical 
and mental characteristics. The Caucasian is clearly dis- 
tinguishable from the African, not only by his fairer skin and 
straighter hair, but also by his superior intellectual powers. 
Within the same race we discover similar, though less clearly 
marked, differences. Apart from noticeable physical dif- 
ferences, the Teuton, with his serious, reflective, persistent 
temper, is quite unlike the Celt, wfth his vivacity, wit, and 
ready enthusiasm. No two nations are exactly alike in form 
or in mind. These differences, wherever found, are naturally 
reflected in literature, which is the expression of the life of 
the soul. 

b. Epoch. — Every age has its peculiar interests, culture, 
and tendencies. With the ancient Jewish nation, religion was 
a predominant interest. In the Elizabethan Age, culture was 
far more general than at the period of the Norman Conquest. 
The present century is characterized by its democratic tend- 
encies. Whatever may be the epoch, its peculiarities will 
inevitably be reflected in its literary productions. An ac- 
quaintance with the general character of an age gives a 
deeper insight into its literature. 

c. Environment. — The third formative influence in 
literature is environment or the prevailing physical and social 
conditions. The literature produced in the presence of a sterile 
soil and rigorous climate is different in tone and color from 
that produced in the midst of fruitful fields and under sunny 
skies ; and, in like manner, its quantity and quality are af- 



INTRODUCTION. 3 

fected, to a greater or less degree, by a state of war or peace, 
intelligence or ignorance, wealth or poverty, freedom or perse- 
cution. 

5. Personal Element. — But it is a mistake to suppose 
that race, epoch, and surroundings will explain everything in 
literature. There is a personal element of great importance. 
From time to time, men of great genius appear, and rising 
by native strength high above the level of their age, become 
centres of a new and mighty influence in literature. This 
truth is exemplified by Homer in Greece, Luther in Germany, 
and Chaucer in England, each of whom exerted an incalcula- 
ble influence upon the subsequent literary development of his 
country. 

6. Literature in a Restricted Sense. — ■ The word litera- 
ture, which up to this point has been used in its large, gen- 
eral sense, has also a restricted meaning, which it is im- 
portant to understand, and with which we are principally con- 
cerned in this work. In any literary production we may dis- 
tinguish between the thoughts that are presented, and the 
manner in which they are presented. We may say, for ex- 
ample, "The sun is rising;" or, ascending to a higher plane 
of thought and feeling, we may present the same fact in the 
language of Thomson: — 

" But yonder comes the powerful King of Day, 
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud, 
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow 
Illumed with fluid gold, his near approach 
Betoken glad." 

It is thus apparent that the interest and value of literature 
are largely dependent upon the manner or form in which the 
facts are presented. In its restricted sense, literature in- 
cludes only those works which are polished or artistic in form. 
Poetry, fiction, essays, and oratory are its principal forms, 
though history and scientific treatises often reach an excellence 
that makes them literature in the narrower sense. The classic 
works of a literature are those which present ideas of general 
and permanent interest in a highly finished or artistic manner. 



4 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

J. Importance. — The importance of literature, both in its 
larger and its narrower sense, can hardly be over-estimated. 
Books are the treasure-houses, in which the intellectual riches 
of all past ages have been permanently stored. Literature is 
our principal means of acquiring a knowledge of the achieve- 
ments of our race, and of rising to the highest plane of intel- 
lectual and spiritual culture. By means of literature we reach 
beyond the narrow limits of our own life and experience, and 
appropriate the best intellectual and spiritual results of all 
ages and all civilized peoples. 



OLD ENGLISH OR AXGLO-SAXOX PERIOD, 

REPRESENTATIVE WRITERS. 
Poetry. 

Caedmon (f 680). 
Author of " Beowulf." 

Prose. 

Bede (673-735). 

Alfred the Great (849-901). 



OLD ENGLISH OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 
(500 — 1066.) 

8. British Celts.— The original inhabitants of the British 
Isles, within historic times, were Celts — a part of the first 
great Aryan wave that swept over Europe. In a portion of 
Great Britain, — in Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, — the Celtic 
element is still very strong. The Celts are a vigorous people, 
adhering to their national customs with great tenacity. They 
possess a lively imagination, delicate feeling, and a ready en- 
thusiasm. They seem, however, to be lacking in the power 
of strong political organization; and this defect made them a 
prey, first to Roman, and later to Teutonic, invaders. 

9. Roman Conquests. — The Romans under Csesar invaded 
Britain, 55 b. c, and partly subdued it. In the following century 
Agricola extended the Roman conquest over the territory now 
included in England, and reduced Britain to a Roman province. 
Towns were built ; military roads were constructed ; Roman 
law was administered; Christianity was introduced; and a con- 
siderable commerce was developed. Corn was exported, and 
the tin mines of Cornwall were worked. But the native popu- 
lation, unlike what had taken place in Gaul and Spain, re- 
mained unassimilated to the empire, and still clung, in large 
measure, to its language and customs. When, after some four 
hundred years, the Roman forces were withdrawn, the Latin 
language, with the exception of a very few words, disappeared 
entirely. The principal relics of this Roman occupation sur- 
viving in our language to-day is the word street (from the 
Latin strata via, a paved way), and the words caster, cester, 
and Chester (from the Latin castra, camp) in the names of 
places; as, Lancaster, Worcester, and Winchester. 

7 



8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

10. Teutonic Invasion. — After the withdrawal of the 
Roman legions in the fifth century, Britain was invaded by the 
Angles, Saxons, and Jutes — Teutonic tribes that inhabited 
Schleswig, Jutland, and adjacent territory on the Continent. 
The beginning of this invasion is usually dated from 449, the 
year in which Hengist and Horsa, according to the Anglo- 
Saxon Chronicle, landed on the shores of Kent. The invading 
Teutons, hated for their cruelty and their heathenism, were 
stubbornly resisted by the native Celts, and it was nearly a 
hundred years before the Britons were finally driven back into 
Cornwall and Wales. They slowly retired, as did the Ameri- 
can Indians in this country, without assimilation ; and beyond 
a few names of places, they left scarcely any trace in our 
language. The Saxons occupied the south, and the Angles the 
north and centre of Britain; and to the latter, who were the 
more numerous, belongs the honor of giving to the country 
its modern name of England — a word signifying the land of 
the Angles. 

11. Racial Character. — In the character of these Teutonic 
tribes are to be found the fundamental traits of the English 
people and of English literature. In their continental home 
they led a semi-barbarous and pagan life. The sterile soil 
and dreary climate fostered a serious disposition, and developed 
great physical strength. Courage was esteemed a leading vir- 
tue, and cowardice was punished with drowning. No other 
men were ever braver. They welcomed the fierce excitement 
of danger; and in rude vessels they sailed from coast to coast 
on expeditions of piracy, war, and pillage. Laughing at storms 
and shipwrecks, these daring sea-kings sang: "The blast of 
the tempest aids our oars ; the bellowing of heaven, the howling 
of the thunder hurts us not; the hurricane is our servant, and 
drives us whither we wish to go." 

With an unconquerable love of independence, they preferred 
death to slavery. Refined tastes and delicate instincts were 
crushed out by their inhospitable surroundings; and their 
pleasures, consisting chiefly of drinking, gambling, and athletic 
sports, were often coarse and repulsive. Yet under their 
coarsest enjoyment we discover a sturdy, masculine strength. 



ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. g 

They felt the presence of the mysterious forces of nature, and 
deified them in a colossal mythology. Traces of their religion 
are seen in the names of the days of the week. Wednesday 
is Woden's day,Thursday is Thor's day, Friday is Frea's day. 
Eostre, the goddess of dawn and of spring, lends her name 
to the festival of the Resurrection. With these Teutons the 
sense of obligation and .duty was strong; and having once 
pledged fidelity to a leader or cause, they remained loyal to 
death. They honored women and revered virtue. In a word, 
they possessed a native seriousness, virtue, and strength, which, 
ennobled by Christianity and refined by culture, raised their 
descendants to an eminent position among the nations of the 
earth. 

12. Anglo-Saxon Language. — The Anglo-Saxon belongs 
to the Teutonic branch of the Aryan family, and is closely 
related, on the one hand, to German, and on the other to 
Scandinavian. It is an inflected language with four cases. 
In England it was divided into four dialects, — the North- 
umbrian, the Mercian, the Kentish, and the West Saxon. Most 
of our Anglo-Saxon remains are in the West Saxon dialect, 
though it is from the Mercian, which was spoken in central 
England, that modern English is most directly derived. The 
Lord's Prayer in Anglo-Saxon, with an interlinear translation, 
will serve for illustration. 

Ure Faeder, thu the eart on heofonum, si thin nama gehalgod. 

Our Father, thou who art in [the] heavens, be thy name hallowed. 
Tocume thin rice. Geweorthe thin willa on eorthan swa-swa on heofonum. 
May come thy kingdom. Be thy will on earth as in[the~\heavens. 
Sele us to-dseg urn daeg-hwamlican hlaf. And forgif us ure gyltas 

Give us to-day our daily bread(loaf). And forgive us our guilts 

swa-swa we fogifath urum gyl-tendum. And ne lsed thu us on costnunge. 
a as we forgive our guilty ones. And not lead thou us into temptation. 
Ac alys us from yfel. Si hit swa. 
but release us from evil. Be it so. 

13. The Gleeman. — The first literature of a people is 
poetry. In national as in individual life, the imagination is 
active during the. period of youth. Among the Anglo-Saxons, 
as among some other nations, narrative poems, before they 



io ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

were reduced to writing, were sung by the wandering glee- 
man, — 

" A man of celebrity, mindful of rhythms, 
Who ancient tradition treasured in memory, 
New word-groups found properly bound." 1 

The most pleasing picture that comes to us from the early 
days of our English forefathers, is that of the scop or gleeman 
at their feasts. While the stern warriors sit at their long 
tables and quaff their mead in the large hall hung with shields 
and armor, and lighted by great blazing logs on the hearth, the 
rude poet, to the sound of his harp, recounts the deeds of 
heroes in rhythmical song. 

14. Alliterative Character. — The principle of Anglo- 
Saxon poetry is not rhyme nor metre, but alliteration. Each 
line is divided into two parts by a caesura, and two principal 
words of the first hemistich, and one of the second, regularly 
begin with the same consonant. If these principal words be- 
gin with vowels, they are different. Parallelism — the repe- 
tition of the same thought in different words, as in Hebrew 
poetry — is also common. The following extract from 
" Beowulf " exhibits the Anglo-Saxon alliterative form : — 

"His armor of zron — off him he did then, 
His /zelmet from his /zead — to his /zenchman committed, 
His c/zased-handled c/jain-sword, — choicest of weapons, 
And bade him bide, — with his battle-equipment." 

15. Style and Tone. — The language of Anglo-Saxon 
poetry is abrupt, elliptical, and highly metaphorical, but often 
of great energy. The range of ideas is necessarily limited. 
From what we already know of the life and character of the 
Angles and Saxons, it is not difficult to understand the spirit 
of their poetry. Not love, but war and religion form its lead- 
ing themes. Its prevailing tone, especially of that portion which 
contains an echo of the continental home of the Angles and 
Saxons, is one of sadness. The inhospitable climate of north- 
ern Germany, and the stern struggle for existence on land 

1 Beowulf, XIV. 



ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. n 

and sea, made life a deeply serious thing. Human agency was 
felt to be weak in comparison with the great invisible forces 
of nature. The sense of fate and death weighed heavily on 
the Anglo-Saxon mind. Thus, in " The Wanderer," a poem 
of an unknown author, we read : — 

" Earth is enwrapped in the lowering tempest, 

Fierce on the stone-cliff the storm rushes forth, 
Cold winter-terror, the night-shade is dark'ning, 

Hail-storms are laden with death from the north. 
All full of hardships is earthly existence — 

Here the decrees of the Fates have their sway — 
Fleeting is treasure and fleeting is friendship — 

Here man is transient, here friends pass away. 
Earth's widely stretching, extensive domain, 
Desolate all — empty, idle, and vain." 

16. Caedmon. — Csedmon, the earliest of English poets, 
lived in the latter part of the seventh aentury. He has with^ 

. justice been called " the Milton of our forefathers " ; and his 
poems are strongly suggestive of " Paradise Lost." He seems 
to have been a laborer on the lands attached to the monastery 
of St. Hilda at Whitby, and was advanced in years before his 
poetical powers were developed. When at festive gatherings 
it was agreed that all present should sing in turn, Csedmon was 
accustomed, as the harp approached him, quietly to retire with 
a humiliating sense of his want of skill. Having left the 
banqueting hall on one occasion, he went to the stable, where 
it was his turn to care for the horses. In a vision an angel 
appeared to him and said : " Csedmon, sing a song to me." He 
answered: "I cannot sing; for that is the reason why I left 
the entertainment, and retired to this place." " Nevertheless," 
said the heavenly visitor, " thou shalt sing." " What shall I 
sing?" inquired the poet, as he felt the movement of an 
awakening power. " Sing the beginning of created things," 
said the angel. 

17. Paraphrase of Scripture. — His mission was thus as- 
signed him. In the morning the good abbess Hilda, with a 
company of learned men, witnessed an exhibition of his newly 



12 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

awakened powers ; and concluding that heavenly grace had 
been bestowed upon him, she bade him lay aside his secular 
habit and received him into the monastery as a monk. Here 
he led a humble, exemplary life in the exercise of his poetic 
gifts. " He sang the creation of the world, the origin of man, 
and all the history of Genesis ; and made many verses on the 
departure of the children of Israel out of Egypt, and their 
entering into the Land of Promise, with many other histories 
from Holy Writ ... by which he endeavored to turn 
away all men from the love of vice, and to excite in them 
the love of, and application to, good actions." 1 

18. Beowulf. — The most important Anglo-Saxon poem 
that has descended to us is " Beowulf," a primitive epic of some 
three thousand lines. It was probably composed in its present 
form in the eighth century, but the events it celebrates are of 
a much earlier date. It brings before us the spirit and man- 
ners of our forefathers, before they left their continental home. 

The hero of the poem is Beowulf : — 

" Of heroes then living 
He was the stoutest and strongest, sturdy and noble." 

Sailing to the land of the Danes, he slew a monster of the 
fens called Grendel, whose nightly ravages brought dismay into 
Hrothgar's royal palace. After slaying the fiend of the marshes 
and his mother beneath the waters, Beowulf, loaded with 
presents and honors, returned to Sweden, where he became 
king, and ruled fifty years. But at last, in slaying a fire- 
dragon " under the earth, nigh to the sea-wave," he was 
mortally wounded. His body was burned on a lofty funeral 
pyre amidst the lamentations of his vassals. 

19. Interesting Details. — Such in brief is the story of 
this epic of heroic daring and achievement, in which the old 
Teutonic character is reflected in its fulness. Its details are 
full of interest. The fierceness of northern seas and skies is 
brought before us. We assist at mead-hall banquets, in which 
gracious queens and beautiful maidens hand the ale cup. The 

1 Bede, " Ecclesiastical History." 



ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 13 

loyalty of liegemen is beautifully portrayed. A stern sense 
of honor prevails among the rude warriors : — 

" Death is more pleasant 
To every earlman than infamous life is." 

Their courage is dauntless, and words count for less than 
actions. Beowulf thus states to the queen the object of his 
visit : — 

" I purposed in spirit when I mounted the ocean 
When I boarded my boat with a band of my liegemen, 
I would work to the fullest the will of your people, 
Or in foe's-clutches fastened fall in the battle. 
Deeds I shall do of daring and prowess, 
Or the last of my life-days live in this mead-hall." 

20. Other Poems. — Other Anglo-Saxon poems that de- 
serve mention are " The Seafarer," " Deor's Complaint," " The 
Fight at Maldon," " The Battle of Brunanburh," and " Judith." 
The former deal with the hardships and sorrows of life ; the 
latter breathe the martial spirit of the Teutonic race. Besides 
these and other secular poems, there is a cycle of religious 
poetry dating from the eighth or ninth centuries. It was 
stimulated by the work of Csedmon. " Others after him," says 
Bede, " tried to make religious poems, but none could vie with 
him, for he did not learn the art of poetry from men, nor of 
men, but from God." This religious poetry is usually based 
on Scripture or on legends of saints. Cynewulf, a North- 
umbrian poet of the eighth century, was the author of several 
religious poems of acknowledged excellence, among which are 
the " Passion of St. Juliana," the " Christ," and " Elene, or 
the Finding of the Cross." 

21. The Father of English Prose. — Bede may be justly 
regarded as the father of English prose. From an interesting 
autobiographical sketch at the close of his " Ecclesiastical 
History," we learn the leading events in his unpretentious life. 
He was born in 673, rear the monastery of Jarrow in north- 
ern England. As pupil, deacon, and priest, he passed his 
entire life in that monastic institution. The leisure that re- 



i 4 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

mained to him after the faithful performance of his various 
official duties, he assiduously devoted to learning; for he al- 
ways took delight, as he tells us, " in learning, teaching, and 
writing." He was an indefatigable worker, and wrote no less 
than forty-five separate treatises, including works on Scripture, 
history, hymnology, astronomy, grammar, and rhetoric, in which 
is embodied all the learning of his age. 

His scholarship and aptness as a teacher gave celebrity to 
the monastic school at Jarrow, which was attended at one time 
by six hundred monks in addition to many secular students. 
His fame extended as far as Rome, whither he was invited 
by Pope Sergius, who wished the benefit of his counsel. He 
led an eminently simple, devout, and earnest life. He declined 
the dignity of abbot, lest the duties of the office might interfere 
with his studies. As a writer he was clear, succinct, and art- 
less. His " Ecclesiastical History," which was composed in 
Latin, is our chief source of information in regard to the early 
Anglo-Saxon church. 

22. Alfred the Great (849-901). — Not many sovereigns 
deserve a place in literature because of their own writings. 
But Alfred was as great with the pen as with the sword. He 
ascended the throne at the age of twenty-three, and spent a 
considerable part of his subsequent life in conflict with the 
Danes, who in great numbers were making a descent upon 
the cultivated districts of England and France for the sake of 
pillage. When he came to the throne, the learning which a 
century before had furnished Europe with some of its most 
eminent scholars had fallen into decay. " To so low a depth 
has learning fallen among the English nation," he says, " that 
there have been very few on this side of the Humber who were 
able to understand the English of their service, or to turn 
an epistle out of Latin into English; and I know that there 
were not many beyond the Humber who could do it." 

23. Literary Labors. — With admirable tact and wisdom 
he set about remedying the evil. He studied Latin himself 
that he might provide his people with useful hooks; he invited 
learned scholars from the Continent to his court; and lie es- 
tablished in tlie myal palace a school for the instruction of 



ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 15 

noble youth. His efforts were grandly successful; and in less 
than a generation England was again blessed with intelligence 
and prosperity. Among the books he translated into Anglo- 
Saxon were Bede's " Ecclesiastical History " ; Orosius's " Uni- 
versal History," the leading textbook on that subject in the 
monastic schools for several centuries ; and Boethius's " Con- 
solations of Philosophy," a popular book among thoughtful 
people during the Middle Ages. These translations were not 
always literal. Alfred rather performed the work of editor, 
paraphrasing, omitting, adding, as best served his purpose. In 
the work of Boethius he frequently departed from the text to 
introduce reflections of his own. To him belongs the honor 
of having furnished England with its first body of literature 
in the native tongue. 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

The following subjects may be assigned students for parallel 
study, essays, or reading" in class. Other subjects and sources may 
be indicated according to the judgment of the teacher and the 
library facilities at his command. A select bibliography will be 
found in the appendix. 

The Roman conquest of Britain, Tacitus, " Agricola " (Bohn), 
Macaulay, " History of England," ch. 1, and Green, " History of 
the English People," ch. 1 ; The introduction of Christianity under 
Augustine, Bede, "Ecclesiastical History," chaps. 25, 26 (Bohn), 
and Macaulay and Green ; The death of Csedmon, Bede, " Ecclesias- 
dcal History," ch. 24; Celtic literature, Morley, "English Writers," 
vol. 1, ch. 3, and Matthew Arnold, " Celtic Literature " ; " The 
Voyage of Maeldune," based on an Irish legend about 700 a.d., 
Tennyson, " Poems " ; The circumstances of Bede's death, Cuth- 
bert's Letter in the preface of Bede's " Ecclesiastical History " 
(Bohn); Teutonic character and customs as illustrated in "Beo- 
wulf," Earle, " The Deeds of Beowulf," a prose translation, and 
Hall, " Beowulf," a metrical, alliterative version ; The qualities of 
Anglo-Saxon poetry as exemplified in " The Seafarer," " The 



16 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Wanderer," and " The Battle of Maldon," Cook and Tinker, " Select 
Translations from Old English Poetry," and Brooke, " Early Eng- 
lish Literature." 

"The Battle of Brunanburgh" is given in the selections of 
Part II. 



MIDDLE ENGLISH OR FORMATIVE PERIOD. 

PRINCIPAL WRITERS, 

History. — " Anglo Saxon Chronicle" (concluded 1154). (See 
Text.) 

Metrical Chronicles. — Layamon (twelfth century), "Brut," 
or Chronicles of Britain. 

Robert of Gloucester (71300), "Rhyming Chronicles of Britain.'" 
Robert Manning (71270), "Chronicles of England." 
Religion. — John Wycliffe (1324-1384). Tracts, Sermons, Trans- 
lation of the Bible. (See Text.) 

Ormin (thirteenth century), " Ormulum." (See Text.) 
Langland (fourteenth century), "Vision of Piers the Plowman." 
(See Text.) 

Miscellaneous Poetry. — John Gower (1327-1408, " Speculum 
Meditantis " (French), "Vox Clamantis " (Latin), " Confessio 
Amantis " (English), etc. (See Text.) 

GREAT REPRESENTATIVE WRITER. 

Geoffrey Chaucer. 



TT. 

MIDDLE ENGLISH OR FORMATIVE PERIOD. 

(1066 — 1400.) 

The designation Middle English or Formative Period is ap- 
plied to the centuries lying between the Norman Conquest 
and the death of Chaucer. It is a period of great importance 
for English history and English literature. England passed 
under a succession of alien rulers, the state of society under- 
went a great change, and cur language approached its modern 
form. 

24. The Normans.- — The name of Normans is given to 
the Scandinavians who, at the beginning of the tenth century, 
conquered a home in the northern part of France. They speed- 
ily adopted the language and customs of the subjugated country, 
and rapidly advanced in refinement and culture. By inter- 
marriage with the native population, a vivacious Celtic ele- 
ment was introduced into the grave Teutonic disposition. 
Though of kindred blood with the Anglo-Saxons, the Normans, 
by their stay in France, developed a new, and in many respects 
admirable, type of character. 

Along with their native Teutonic strength they acquired a 
versatile and imitative temper, which made them accessible 
to new ideas, and prepared them to be leaders in general prog- 
ress. Losing their slow, phlegmatic temperament, they be- 
came impulsive and impatient of restraint. Their intellects 
acquired a nimble quality, quick in discernment and instan- 
taneous in decision. Delicacy of feeling produced aversion to 
coarse pleasures. They delighted in a gay social life, with hunt- 
ing, hawking, showy equipage, and brilliant festivities. Diplo- 
macy in a measure supplanted dai ing frankness. Brilliant super- 
ficiality took the place of grave Lhoughtfulness. Such were the 
18 



THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 



19 



people that were to rule in England, to introduce their language 
and customs, and, amalgamated at last, to impart a needed ele- 
ment to the English character. 

25. The Norman Conquest. — In 1066 William, Duke of 
Normandy, landed on the English coast to enforce his claim 
to the English throne. In the battle of Hastings he gained a 
complete victory over the force under Harold, and won the 
title of Conqueror. He distributed England in the form of 
fiefs among his followers, and reduced the Anglo-Saxon popu- 
lation to a condition of serfdom. Feudal castles were erected 
in every part of England; and the barons or lords, supported 
by the labors of a great body of dependants, lived in idleness 
and luxury. These baronial residences became centres oi 
knightly culture. Here noble youths acquired courtly graces, 
and wandering minstrels entertained the assembled household 
with their songs. Brilliant tournaments from time to time 
brought together the beauty and chivalry of the whole realm. 
French became the social language of the ruling classes ; and 
the Anglo-Saxons, reduced to servitude, were despised. It re- 
quired many generations to break down this harsh antagonism. 

26. Linguistic Changes. — But toward the close of the 
period, especially in the fourteenth century, the people of 
England became more homogeneous. The Normans coalesced 
with the Anglo-Saxons, and added new elements to the English 
character. At the same time the Anglo-Saxon language, which 
had hitherto maintained its highly inflected character, made a 
gradual transition into modern English. It gave up its com- 
plicated inflections, and received into its vocabulary a host of 
foreign elements, chiefly from the French. The new tongue, 
which gradually supplanted French and Latin, gained official 
recognition in 1362, when it became the language of the courts 
of law; and the following year it was employed in the speech 
made at the opening of Parliament. 

2J. Social Conditions. — The social condition of England 
in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries was intimately re- 
lated to the first great outbreak of English literature. A re- 
straint was set upon absolutism by the provisions of the Great 
Charter. The growth of cities and towns had been rapid, and 



20 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

there existed in all parts of England a wealthy and influential 
citizen class. The serfs of the time of the Conquest had risen 
to the rank of free peasants. Parliament was divided into 
two bodies, and the people acquired a growing influence in the 
affairs of government. The amalgamation of the two races that 
had lived side by side for centuries was gradually completed, 
and the great English nation, in its modern form, had its be- 
ginning — ■ a nation that in its type of character is second to 
none in the history of the world. 

28. Literary Expansion. — As compared with the pre- 
ceding period, literature exhibits great expansion. It gained 
in variety and extent — a result that was due to a number of 
cooperative causes. The crusades had a stimulating effect in 
Europe, and brought new ideas into vogue. The caliphs of 
Bagdad and Cordova became rivals in the patronage of learn- 
ing, and for a time the Arabians became the intellectual lead- 
ers of Europe. Learning was held in greater esteem and prose- 
cuted with greater vigor throughout Christian Europe. The 
monastic and cathedral schools were generally improved. The 
growth of towns and cities led to the establishment of burgher 
schools for secular education. Learning was no longer con- 
fined to representatives of the church. The first great uni- 
versities were founded in this period — those of Bologna, 
Salerno, and Paris in the twelfth century. The oldest colleges 
of Oxford and Cambridge date from this period. The uni- 
versities were often attended by enormous numbers of students 
from every part of Europe ; there were as many as twenty 
thousand at the University of Paris at one time. 

29. Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. — During the formative 
period, the course of English literature follows three principal 
streams, — history, romance, and religion. The " Anglo-Saxon 
Chronicle," which contains the history of Britain from the in- 
vasion of Caesar, was completed in n 54. Written in the form 
of brief annals, it is the work of many successive hands. King 
Alfred edited and expanded it. It is the earliest history of any 
Teutonic people in their own language. " From Alfred's time," 
says Freeman, "the narrative continues, sometimes full, some- 
times meagre, sometimes a dry record of names and dates, 



THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 21 

sometimes rising to the highest flights of the prose picture or 
the heroic lay; but in one shape or other never failing us, till 
the pen dropped from the hand of the monk of Peterborough, 
who recorded the coming of Henry of Anjou." 

30. Lyrical Poems. — In addition to long metrical chron- 
icles, such as Layamon's " Brut," Robert of Gloucester's " Rhym- 
ing Chronicles of Britain," and Robert Manning's " Chronicles 
of England," there were lyrical poems of adventure and senti- 
ment, in which the influence of the troubadour may perhaps be 
traced. Robin Hood ballads were popular. The earliest Eng- 
lish love-song that has been preserved was written about the 
year 1200. The following extract is modernized in spelling: — 

"Blow, northern wind, send 
Thou me my sweeting ; blow 
Northern wind, blow, blow, blow. 
She is coral of goodness, 
She is ruby of rich fulness, 
She is crystal of clearness, 
And banner of beauty." 

The following poem on spring, which was written near the 
beginning of the thirteenth century, is full of blithe poetic 
feeling: — 

" Summer is i-cumen in, 
Lhude 1 sing, cuccu ; 
Groweth sed, and bloweth med, 
And springeth the wde 2 nu. 

Sing, cuccu, cuccu, 
Awe bleteth after lamb, 
Louth 3 after calve cu, 
Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth : 
Murie sing, cuccu, 
Well sings the cuccu, 
Ne swik 4 thou never nu. 
Sing, cuccu, nu, 
Sing, cuccu." 

1 Loud 2 Wood. 3 Runneth. * Nor such. 



22 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

31. Religion and Literature. — Religion has a prominent 
place in literature. As one of the great interests of our race, 
it has given rise, directly and indirectly, to a vast body of 
writings. This is particularly true of the English people, whose 
history and character have led them to give much thought to 
ecclesiastical and religious truth. The religious condition of 
England during the Middle English Period is reflected in sev- 
eral noteworthy works. The people of England were begin- 
ning to emancipate themselves from ecclesiastical tutelage ; and 
while holding earnestly to religion, they were not slow in 
recognizing errors of doctrine and immorality of life on the 
part of representatives of the church. 

32. Wycliffe. — Wycliffe, who has been called the morn- 
ing star of the Reformation, was connected with the Uni- 
versity of Oxford, where his learning, ability, and integrity 
gave him great influence. He was strongly anti-papal in his 
feeling, and denied the right of the pope to interfere in tem- 
poral matters. He maintained the preeminent authority of the 
Scriptures in matters of faith and duty. He promulgated his 
doctrines in tracts, and through an itinerant ministry, whom he 
organized and instructed. His principal claim, however, to a 
place in English literature, rests upon his translation of the 
Bible, which was completed about 1380. It is regarded as the 
earliest Middle English classic, and Marsh calls it " the golden 
book of Old English philology." The following extract will 
illustrate its style: 

" And he spak to hem this parable, and seide, What man of 
you that hath an hundrith scheep, and if he hath lost oon of hem, 
whethir he leeneth not nynti and nyne in desert, and goith to it 
that perischide, til he fynde it? And whanne he hath fonndtm it, 
he ioieth, and leyith it on his schnldris ; and he cometh boom, and 
clepith togidir hisc freendis and neighboris, and seith to hem. Be 
ye glad with me, for I have founde my scheep, that hadde per- 
ischid. And I seie to you, so ioye shal be in heuene on o synful 
man doynge penaunce, more than on nynti and nyne iuste, that 
have no nede to penaunce." 



THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 23 

33. Ormulum. — An important work philologically is 
" Ormulum/' a metrical paraphrase of those portions of the 
New Testament appointed to be read in the daily service of the 
church, accompanied by a homily. It is named from its author, 
who was — ■ 

" Orrmin bi name nemmnedd." 

The orthography of the poem is peculiar, as Ormin made it 
a rule to double the consonant after each short vowel. Its 
date may be fixed approximately at 1200. In the form in which 
it has come down to us, it comprises about twenty thousand 
lines. The following passage from the dedication will serve 
for illustration : — 

" Nu, brotherr Wallterr, brotherr min 
Affterr the flaeshess kinde; 
And brotherr min i Crisstenndom 
Thurrh fulluhht 1 and thurrh trowwthe; 
■ And brotherr min i Godess hus, 
Yet o the thride - wise, 
Thurrh thatt witt 3 hafenn takenn ba 4 
An reghellboc to follghenn, 5 
Unnderr kanunnkess had 6 and lif, 
Swa summ 7 Sannt Awwstin sette; 
Ice hafe don swa summ thu badd, 
And forthedd te thin wille, 
Ice hafe wennd inntill Ennglissh 
Goddspelless hallghe lare s 
Affter thatt little witt tatt me 
Min Drihhtin 9 hafethth lenedd." 

34. Langland. — Still more important, for its historical 
and literacy value, is Langland's " The Vision of William con- 
cerning Piers the Plowman," a poem of some twenty-five hun- 
dred lines, retaining the old Saxon alliteration. It sets forth 
in seven " passus " or cantos a series of visions, in which the 
condition of the state and the church is clearly reflected. 



1 Through baptism. 


4 Both. 


'As. 


2 Third. 


5 One rule book to follow. 


8 Holy lore. 


3 We. 


6 Canonhood. 


9 Lord. 



24 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" It was," says Marsh, " a calm, allegorical exposition of the 
corruptions of the state, of the church, and of social life, de- 
signed not to rouse the people to violent resistance or bloody 
vengeance, but to reveal to them the true causes of the evils 
under which they were suffering, and to secure the reformation 
of those grievous abuses by a united exertion of the moral in- 
fluence which generally accompanies the possession of superior 
physical strength." 

It was written about 1362, and attained a wide popularity, 
no fewer than forty-five manuscripts being still extant. The 
opening lines are as follows : — 

" In a somer seson whan soft was the sonne, 
I shope me in shroudes 1 as I a shepe - were, 
In habite as an heremite unholy of workes, 
Went wyde in this world wondres to here. 
As on a May mornynge on Malverne hulles, 3 
Me byfel a ferly of fairy, 4 me thoughte ; 
I was wery forwandred 5 and went me to reste 
Under a brode banke bi a bornes 6 side, 
And as I lay and lened and loked in the wateres, 
I slombred in a slepyng it sweyved 7 so merye." 

35. Gower. — John Gower, a contemporary and friend of 
Chaucer, was of noble family. In dedicating a book to him, 
Chaucer styled him the " moral Gower," a term which has since 
adhered to his name and which indicates the prevailing pur- 
pose of his poetry. He wrote three principal poems, — the 
" Speculum Meditantis " in French, which has been lost, the 
" Vox Clamantis " in Latin, and the " Confessio Amantis " in 
English. The " Confessio Amantis," or " Lover's Confession," 
is a dialogue between a lover and a priest of Venus. It is 
written in smooth iambic tetrameter verse, and contains, some- 
what after the manner of the " Decameron," a succession of 
tales drawn from Ovid, French " Chansons de Gestc," the 
Bible, Boccaccio, and other sources. " Gower had some effect," 

,* Arrayed myself in garments. ' Wonder of enchantment. 

2 Shepherd. 6 Weary with wandering. 

3 Hills, G Brook. " Sounded. 






/)'/,' .<li:\i:.h,!SriS('il C-rmfU. Jt/\ 



Original engraving by G. Vertue. 



THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 25 

says Hallam, " in rendering the language less rude, and ex- 
citing a taste for verse.; if he never rises, he never sinks low; 
he is always sensible, polished, perspicuous." In the original 
prologue, Gower tells us that the poem was written at the re- 
quest of Richard II., who met him while rowing on the 
Thames : — 

" And so befell as I came nigh 

Out of my bote, whan he me sigh, 

He bad me come into his barge. 

And whan I was with him at large, 

Amonges other thinges said, 

He hath this charge upon me laid 

And bad me do my besinesse, 

That to his highe worthynesse 

Some newe thing I shoulde boke, 

That he himself it mighte loke 

After the forme of my writing." 

36. Sources of Modern English. — The language of 
Wycliffe's version of the Bible and of Gower's " Confessio 
Amantis " is in the Mercian dialect, or in the language spoken 
in central England. Chaucer wrote in the same dialect. It 
was largely thrcagh the influence of these three great writers, 
together with the influence of Oxford and Cambridge, that 
the language of central England gained the ascendency over 
the dialect of northern and southern England, and became the 
mother of Modern English. 

GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 

37. His Pre-eminence. — Above all his contemporaries of 
the fourteenth century stands the figure of Geoffrey Chaucer. 
Among all the writers that we have considered, he is the first 
to show the spirit and freedom of the modern world. Two 
recent poets have accorded him generous recognition and praise. 
In his " Dream of Fair Women/' Tennyson calls him " the 
morning star of song," — 

" Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath 
Preluded those melodious bursts that fill 



26 EX GUSH LITERATURE. 

The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still." 

tn a sonnet on Chaucer, Longfellow says : — 

" He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote 

The Canterbury Tales, and his old age 
Made beautiful with song; and as I read, 
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note 
Of lark and linnet, and from every page 
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead." 

Like Homer in Greece, Chaucer stands preeminent in the 
early literature of England; and among the great English poets 
of subsequent ages, net more than three or four — Shakespeare, 
Spenser, Milton, Tennyson — deserve to be placed in the same 
rank. 

38. Early Life. — As with some other great writers, com- 
paratively little is known of Chaucer's life. The most pains- 
taking investigations have been comparatively fruitless in de- 
tails. He was born in London about 1340. His father was a 
vintner, and it is not improbable that Geoffrey sometimes lent 
him assistance. In the " Pardoner's Tale " there is an in- 
teresting passage which shows Chaucer's acquaintance with the 
different French and Spanish wines, and which contains a 
warning against the dangers of drunkenness : — 

" A lecherous thing is wyne, and dronkenesse 
Is full of stryving and of wretchednesse." 

Nothing definite is known in regard to his education. The 
opinion formerly held that he studied at Cambridge or Ox- 
ford is without satisfactory foundation. Yet his works show 
that he was a man j o: learning. Besides his knowledge of 
French and Italian, he was acquainted with the classics, and 
with every other branch of scholastic learning current in his 
day. 

39. Various Offices. — In 1359 he accompanied Edward 
III. in an invasion of France; and having been captured by the 
French, he was ransomed by the English king for sixteen 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 27. 

pounds. He was long attached to the court; he filled various 
public offices, and served on no fewer than seven diplomatic 
embassies to the Continent. Among other positions, he filled 
the office of comptroller of customs in the port of London; 
but, like many others of strong literary bent, he appears to 
have felt the irksomeness of his routine duties. In an auto- 
biographic touch in the " Hous of Fame," we read : — 

" For whan thy labour doon al is, 
And hast-y-maad thy rekeninges, 
In stede of reste and newe thinges, 
Thou gost hoom to thy house anoon; 
And, also domb as any stoon, 
Thou sittest at another boke, 
Til fully daswed is thy loke, 
And livest thus as an hermyte, 
Although thyn abstinence is lyte." 

40. In Misfortune. — But his political career was not one 
of uninterrupted prosperity. In 1386 he was elected a mem- 
ber of Parliament for the shire of Kent; but the same year, 
through a change in the government, he lost his office of comp- 
troller of customs. This incident is supposed to have inspired 
the ballad on " Truth " : — 

" Flee fro the prees, 1 and dwelle with sothfastnesse, 2 
Suffyce unto 3 thy good, though hit be smal ; 
For hord hath hate, and climbing tikelnesse, 4 
Prees hath envye, and wile blent overal." 5 

In 1399, when he was again in financial straits, he sent to 
King Henry IV. a complaint about his poverty. It is entitled, 
" A Compleynt to his Purs " : — 

" To you my purse, and to non other wight 
Complayne I, for you be my lady dere ! 
I am so sorry, now that ye be light ; 
For certes, but ye make me hevy chere, 

1 Crowd. 3 Be content with. 

2 Truth. 4 Instability. 

5 Happiness fails everywhere. 



28 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Me were as leef be leyd upon my bere ; 
For whiche unto your mercy thus I crye : 
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye." 

This serio-comic piece was not fruitless, and four days after- 
ward the king doubled the poet's pension. 

41. A Pen Portrait. — In the " Prologue to Sir Thopas," 
the host of the Tabard and the leader of the Canterbury pil- 
grims draws the poet's portrait. After a most pathetic tale 
related by the prioress, Harry Bailly was the first to interrupt 
the silence : — 

" And than at erst he loked upon me, 

And seyde thus, ' what man arthow,' quod he ; 

' Thou lokest as thou woldest finde an hare, 

For ever upon the ground I see thee stare. 

Approache neer, and loke up merily. 

Now war you, sirs, and let this man have place; 

He in the waast is shape as wel as I; 

This were a popet 1 in an arm t' embrace 

For any womman, smal and fair of face. 

He semeth elvish by his countenance, 

For unto no wight dooth he daliaunce. ' " 

Chaucer died in circumstances of comfort and peace Oct. 25, 
1400. His body lies in Westminster Abbey, where his tomb 
is an object of tender interest in the famous Poets' Corner. 

42. Character and Attainments. — While the outward 
circumstances of Chaucer's life are so imperfectly known, we 
have abundant means to judge of his character and attainments. 
He is revealed to us in his writings. While associated with 
the court life of his time, he did not surrender himself to its 
vices and empty frivolities. He was not indifferent to the 
enjoyments of social life, but, at the same time, he set his 
heart on higher things. He recognized true worth wherever 
he found it, regardless of the accident of birth or wealth. He 
seems in no small measure to have embodied the integrity and 
gentleness which he bravely ascribes to the character of the 
gentleman in the "Talc of the Wyf of Rathe ": — 

1 If this is spoken ironically, as seems to he the case, it indicates corpulency. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 29 

" But for ye speken of swich gentillesse 
As is descended out of old richesse, 
That therefore sholden ye be gentil men, 
Swich arrogance is nat worth an hen. 
Loke who that is most virtuous alway, 
Privee and apert, and most entendeth ay 
To do the gentil dedes that he can, 
And tak him for the grettest gentil man. 
Crist wol, we clayme of him our gentillesse, 
Nat of our eldres for hir old richesse." 

43. Love of Nature. — Chaucer's love of nature was re- 
markable, and rivalled his passion for books. He tells us that 
there is nothing can take him from his reading, — 

" Save certeynly, whan that the month of May 
Is comen, and that I here the fowles singe, 
And that the floures ginnen for to springe, 
Farwel my book, and my devocioun." 

His poetic nature responded to the beauties of the morning 
landscape, the matin carols of the birds, and the glories of the 
rising sun. The May-time, as may be seen from the prologue 
to the " Legend of Good Women," was his favorite season ; 
and long before Burns and Wordsworth, he loved and sang 
of the daisy. The sight of this flower, as it opens to the sun, 
lightened his sorrow : — 

" And down on knees anon — right I me sette, 
And, as I coude, this fresshe flour I grette ; 
Kneling alwey, til hit unclosed was, 
Upon the smale, softe, swote gras." 

44. Literary Equipment.— The circumstances of 
Chaucer's life, as will have been noted, were favorable for 
the work he was to do in English literature. Langland wrote 
for the common people; Gower addressed himself to the edu- 
cated; Chaucer, with a broader spirit, prepared his works for 
every class. His diligence as a student, his familiarity with 
the best society of his time, and his wide experience as a man 



30 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of affairs at home and abroad gave him great mental breadth. 
When he reached the full maturity of his powers, he was ad- 
mirably equipped in language, knowledge, and culture to pro- 
duce works of surpassing excellence. In the fourteenth cen- 
tury, various dialects, as we have seen, existed in England ; but 
from this linguistic confusion, to use the words of Marsh, " The 
influence and example of Chaucer did more to rescue his native 
tongue than any other single cause." He made the Midland 
dialect, which he used in common with Gower and Wycliffe, 
the national language. 

45. Canterbury Tales. — In his earlier literary career 
Chaucer felt in turn the influence of French and Italian models. 
But beginning about the year 1384 he walked independently 
in conscious strength. It was during this closing period of 
his busy and fruitful life that he produced his greatest work, 
the " Canterbury Tales," the idea of which seems to have been 
suggested by Boccaccio's " Decameron." 

Like the great Italian author, Chaucer adopted the idea 
of a succession of stories, but invented a happier occasion for 
their narration. One evening in April a company of twenty- 
nine pilgrims, of various conditions in life, meet at the Tabard, 
a London inn, on their way to the shrine of Thomas a Becket 
at Canterbury. At supper the jolly, amiable host offers to ac- 
company them as guide; and in order to relieve the tedium of 
the journey, he proposes that each one shall tell two tales on 
the way to the tomb and the same number on their return. 
The one narrating the best tale is to receive a supper at the ex- 
pense of the others. 

46. The Prologue. — The poet joins the party; and in the 
" Prologue " he gives us, with great artistic and dramatic power, 
a description of the pilgrims. The various classes of Eng- 
lish society — a knight, a lawyer, a doctor, an Oxford student, a 
miller, a prioress, a monk, a farmer and others — are all placed 
before us with marvellous distinctness. It is a living picture 
of contemporary life, showing us the features, dress, manners, 
customs, and social and religious interests of the English peo- 
ple in the latter half of the fourteenth century. Nothing es- 
capes the microscopic scrutiny of the poet. Yet with this keen- 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER: 3* 

ness of observation and wonderful power to detect the pe- 
culiarities and foibles of men, there is no admixture of cyni- 
cism. There is humor and satire, but they are thornless. All of 
Chaucer's later writings are pervaded by an atmosphere of 
genial humor, kindness, tolerance, humanity. 

47. Typical Characters. — Chaucer begins his sketches of 
the Canterbury pilgrims with the knight, a model of chivalrous 
heroism. Notwithstanding the great achievements of the 
knight in various parts of Europe and Africa, he still — 

" Was of his port as meke as is a mayde. 
He nevere yit no vileinye ne sayde 
In al his lyf unto no maner wight. 
He was a verray perfight gentil knight." 

The portrait of the prioress, Madame Eglantine, — 

" That of hire smylyng was ful symple and coy," — 

exhibits the poet's close observation : — 

" At mete wel i-taught was sche withalle ; 
Sche leet no morsel from hire lippes falle, 
Ne wette hire fiyngres in hire sauce deepe. 

But for to speken of hire conscience, 
Sche was so charitable and so pitous 
Sche wolde weepe if that sche sawe a mous 
Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde." 

The decadence of the church — the love of ease, pleasure, 
wealth, and power, that had taken possession of many of its 
representatives — is reflected in the sketches of the monk, the 
friar, and the pardoner, — 

" Whose walet lay byforn him in his lappe, 
Bret-ful of pardonn come from Rome al hoot." 

But in contrast with these unworthy representatives of the 
church stands the " poure Persoun of a toun," showing us that 
genuine piety was not extinct. 

48. The Various Tales. — The tales that follow the " Pro- 



32 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

logue " — the whole number was never completed — are ad- 
mirably adapted to the character of the narrators. They in- 
clude the whole circle of mediaeval literature,— - the romance of 
chivalry, the legends ■ of saints, the apologue and allegorical 
story, the theological treatise, and the coarse tale of immorality 
and cunning. The tales are told with ease, rapidity, and grace. 
They abound in humor and pathos; and among all the works 
composed on the same general plan, the " Canterbury Tales " 
is greatest. 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

(See introductory note under this heading at the close of the 
preceding period.) 

The battle of Hastings, " Anglo-Saxon Chronicle " under the 
year 1066 (included in Bede's "Ecclesiastical History"), and 
Green, "History of the English People." vol. 1, ch. 4; Relation of 
Norman and Saxon, Hallam, " Middle Ages," ch. 7, Scott, " Ivan- 
hoe," particularly ch. 1 ; Formation of the new language, Lounsbury, 
" History of the English Language " or Emerson, " History 
of the English Language " ; A review of the Fifth Passus 
of " Piers the Plowman " ; A story from Gower's " Confessio 
Amantis " ; Chaucer's love of nature as exhibited in his poems ; 
The England of Chaucer's day, Ward, "Chaucer," ch. 1 (English 
Men of Letters Series), Jenks, "In the Days of Chaucer"; Social 
conditions in England as represented in the Prologue ; Instances 
of the poet's keen observation ; A collection of the finest poetic 
passages in the Prologue; An outline of the "Knight's Tale"; 
A character study of Palamon and Arcite ; A description of the 
tournament in the " Knight's Tale " ; The character of Griselda in 
the " Clerk's Tale " ; A synopsis of the " Nun's Priest's Tale " ; 
the characteristics of Chaucer as a poet, Ward, " Chaucer." ch. 3, 
Lowell, "My Study Windows," Lounsbury, "Chaucer," Green, 
"History of the English People," vol. 1, p. 503. 

Chaucer's "Prologue" to the "Canterbury Talcs" will be found 
in the selections of Part II. 



FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 

PRINCIPAL WRITERS. 

Pre-Elizabethan. — William Caxton (1422-1491). First English 
printer, edited and printed ninety-nine works. 

Sir Thomas More (1478-1535). Lord Chancellor, author of 
"Utopia" (1516) and "History of King Edward V." (1513). (See 
Text.) 

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (15 16-1547). Poet who introduced 
blank verse and the sonnet into English poetry. (See Text.) 

Sir Thomas Wyat (1503-1542). Poet, satirist, sonneteer, strictly- 
following Italian models. (See Text.) 

Elizabethan Prose. — Roger Ascham (1515-1568). Tutor to 
Queen Elizabeth, author of " Toxophilus " (1545) an d the " Schole- 
master" (1570). 

John Lyly (1553-1606). Author of " Euphues " (1580), and 
dramatist. 

Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586). Author of "Arcadia" (1590) and 
"The Defense of Poesie " (1595). (See Text.) 

Richard Hooker (1553-1600). Clergyman, and author of "Eccle- 
siastical Polity" (1592). 

Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618). Soldier, sailor, courtier, states- 
man, historian, poet. Author of "Discovery of Guiana" (1596) and 
"History of the World' (1614). (See Text.) 

Poetry. — Thomas Sackville, Earl of Dorset (1536-1608). Author 
of "Mirror for Magistrates" (1563) and of first English tragedy, 
" Gorboduc," acted before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall in 1561. 

Samuel Daniel (1562-1619). Author of "Civil Wars" (1595- 
1604), a poetical history of the Wars of the Roses. 

Michael Drayton (1563-1631). Author of " Polyolbion " (1613- 
1622), a poem in thirty books descriptive of the topography of 
England. 

Drama. — Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593). Author of " Tam- 
burlaine the Great," " The Rich Jew of Malta," and " Doctor John 
33 



34 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Faustus " ; a dramatist of great power, who has been called " a 
second Shakespeare." 

Robert Greene (1560-1592). Author of " Alphonsus, King of 
Aragon," and other plays. In a pamphlet entitled " A Groat's Worth 
of Wit," he rails at Shakespeare as " an upstart crow, beautified with 
our feathers." 

Ben Jonson (1573-1637). Friend of Shakespeare, and author of 
many dramas, among which are " Every Man in his Humor," " Cyn- 
thia's Revels," " Sejanus," and "The Alchemist." (See Text.) 

Philip Massinger (1 584-1640). Author of thirty-eight dramas, 
among which are " The City Madam," " The Fatal Dowry," and " A 
New Way to Pay Old Debts." The last still keeps its place upon 
the stage. 

John Webster (date of birth and death unknown) was strong in 
handling terrible subjects. Among his plays are "The Duchess of 
Malfi " and " The White Devil," which Hazlitt says come near to 
Shakespeare. 

Thomas Dekker (1570-1637). Author of twenty-eight plays. His 
" Satiromastix " satirizes Ben Jonson. In another of his plays occur 
the oft-quoted lines, — 

" The best of men 
That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer; 
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit ; 
The first true gentleman that ever breathed." 

Francis Beaumont (1586-1615) and John Fletcher (1570-1625) 
were joint authors of fifty-two plays, among the best of which are 
" The Maid's Tragedy," " Cupid's Revenge," and " Philaster." 

GREAT REPRESENTATIVE AUTHORS. 

Edmund Spenser. Francis Bacon 

William Shakespeare. 



III. 

FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 
(1558 -1625.) 

49. Preceding Barrenness. — The century and a half ly- 
ing between the death of Chaucer and the accession of Eliza- 
beth was an era of preparation. The potential forces that had 
called the father of English poetry into being seemed to sub- 
side, and not a single writer in either prose or poetry attained 
to the first or even to the second rank. The cause of this 
literary barrenness is to Le found partly in the repression of 
free inquiry by the church and parliament, partly in the social 
disorders connected with the Wars of the Roses, and partly 
in the varied and important interests that engaged general 
attention. 

50. Intellectual Awakening. — The century preceding 
the accession of Elizabeth was an era of awakened mind and 
intellectual acquisition. The revival of learning was an event 
of vast importance, not only in the intellectual life of Eng- 
land, but also of all Europe. It had its central point in the 
capture of Constantinople by the Turks in 1453, which caused 
many Greek scholars to seek refuge in Italy. As ancient learn- 
ing had already begun to receive attention there, these scholarly 
fugitives were warmly welcomed. Noble and wealthy pat- 
ronage was not wanting; and coon the classic literature of 
Greece and Rome was studied with almost incredible enthusiasm. 
The popes received the new learning under their protection; 
libraries were founded, manuscripts collected, and academies 
established. 

Eager scholars from England, France, and Germany sat at 
the feet of Italian masters, in order afterward to bear beyond 
the Alps the precious seed of the new culture. Its beneficent 
. 35 



36 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

effects soon became apparent. Greek was introduced into the 
great universities of England. Erasmus, the most brilliant 
scholar of his time, taught at Oxford. It became the fashion 
to study the ancient classics, and Elizabeth, Jane Grey, and 
other noble ladies are said to have been conversant with Plato, 
Xenophon, and Cicero in the original. The taste, the elo- 
quence, the refined literary culture, of Athens and pagan Rome 
were restored to the world ; and " gradually, by an insensible 
change, men were raised to the level of the great and healthy 
minds which had freely handled ideas of all kinds fifteen 
centuries before." 

51. Inventions and Discoveries. — The remarkable in- 
ventions and discoveries of the fifteenth century contributed, 
in a noteworthy degree, to awaken intellect, and lift men to a 
higher plane of knowledge. The printing-press was invented 
about the middle of the century, and in less than a decade it 
was brought to such perfection that the whole Bible appeared 
in type in 1456. It became a powerful aid in the revival of 
learning. It at once supplanted the tedious and costly process 
of copying books by hand, and brought the repositories of 
learning within reach of the common people. Gunpowder, 
which had been invented the previous century, came into com- 
mon use, and wrought a salutary change in the organization 
of society. It destroyed the military prestige of the knightly 
order, brought the lower classes into greater prominence, and 
contributed to the abolition of serfdom. The mariner's com- 
pass greatly furthered navigation. Instead of creeping along 
the shores of the Mediterranean or the Atlantic, seamen boldly 
ventured upon unknown waters. In 1492 Columbus discovered 
America ; and six years later Vasca da Gama, rounding the 
Cape of Good Hope, sailed across the Indian Ocean to Cal- 
cutta. Voyages of discovery followed in rapid succession, new 
continents were added to the map, and the general store of 
knowledge was greatly increased. 

52. The Reformation. — When the reformatory move- 
ment, which began with Martin Luther in Germany in 15 17. ex- 
tended to England, it found a receptive soil. Traditions of 
Wycliffe still survived; the new learning was friendly to re- 



FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 37 

form; and men of high civil and ecclesiastical rank had in- 
veighed against existing abuses. Though Henry VIII. at first 
remained faithful to the Roman Catholic church, and even wrote 
a book against the German reformer, he afterward, for per- 
sonal and selfish reasons, withdrew his support, and encouraged 
the reformatory work of his ministers and of parliament. In 
1534 the Act of Supremacy was passed, by which the king 
was made the supreme head of the Church of England, and 
empowered to " repress and amend all such errors and heresies 
as, by any manner of spiritual jurisdiction, might and ought 
to be lawfully reformed." 

53. Relation to Literature. — Without attempting to trace 
the general effects of the Reformation in. England — a factor 
that enters with a molding influence into all the subsequent 
history of the country — some of its immediate results upon" 
English literature are briefly indicated. In 1526 Tyndale pub- 
lished his translation of the New Testament, which was fol- 
lowed soon afterward by other portions of the Bible. Nearly 
every year, for half a century, saw a new edition issue from 
the press. Tyndale's translation was made with great ability, 
and served as the basis of subsequent versions until, in 161 1, 
King James's version, embodying all the excellences of previous 
efforts, gained general acceptance. 

Latimer, whose vigorous sermons advanced the cause of the 
Reformation in different parts of England; is a type of the 
unbroken line of able preachers whose influence since upon 
the social, moral, and intellectual life of the English people 
cannot be estimated. Religious services were conducted in 
English; and in 1549 the "Book of Common Prayer," which 
has been absorbed into the life of succeeding generations, was 
published, and its use, to the exclusion of all other forms, 
prescribed by law. 

54. Old English Ballads. — There are a few productions 
and a few writers prior to the accession of Elizabeth that well 
deserve mention. It was during the period between Chaucer* 
and the " Virgin Queen " that the most famous of the old 
English ballads were written. In their simplicity, directness, 
and often crudeness of style, they possess a charm that a more 



3 8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

cultivated age cannot successfully imitate. Not a few of them 
celebrate the fearless conflicts of the Scottish border and the 
lawless deeds of bold freebooters. Unwritten songs of the 
people — of the . " good yeomanry" they invoke blessings upon 
— they were recited by wandering minstrels, and handed down 
by tradition from generation to generation. In most cases 
their authors are unknown ; and constantly undergoing changes 
and receiving additions, they may be said, not to have been 
composed, but to have grown. In them the rude life of the 
times — the lawlessness-? daring, fortitude, passion — is 
graphically depicted. 

55. Chevy Chase. — Among the best known of these bal- 
lads is " Chevy Chase," which describes with great simplicity 
and force a battle between Lord Percy of England and Earl 
Douglas of Scotland. " I never heard the old song of Percy 
and Douglas," wrote Sir Philip Sidney in his " Defense of 
Poesie," " that I found not my heart moved more than with a 
trumpet." Of a later version Addison wrote an interesting 
critique in the Spectator. In its oldest form the ballad begins 
as follows : — 

" The Perse owt off Northombarlande, 

And a vowe to God mayd he, 
That he wolde hunte in the mountayns 

Off Chyviat within dayes thre, 
In the manger of doughte Dogles, 

And all that ever with him be." 

56. Robin Hood. — Robin Hood, the bold outlaw of Sher- 
wood forest, is the centre of an interesting group of ballads. 
For a long time he was the people's ideal hero. Sir Walter 
Scott called him " the gentlest thief that ever was." But his 
popularity, surpassing that of any English king of the time, 
was due, not to his deeds of violence, but to his courage, love 
of fair play, and open-handed generosity. His sympathies 
were with the yeomanry; he took the part of the oppressed; 
he robbed the rich to give to the poor; and though a good 
Catholic, who would hear three masses every day. he haled 
the extortions of bishops and monks. There is no rancor in 



FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 39 

F:obin Hood's fighting. He looks upon it as a manly test of 
strength, and with Saxon honesty disdains to take any un- 
fair advantage. He jokes with his antagonist, and after the 
fight is over takes him by the hand and receives him into the 
friendship of frank and fearless men. 

57. Sir Thomas More. — There is a writer of prose in 
the pre-Elizabethan period who produced works still possessing 
considerable interest. Sir Thomas More, who was called in 
his day the greatest wit in England, was born in 1478. He 
studied Greek at Oxford under Linacre and Grocyn, enthusiastic 
devotees of the new learning. His " Life of Edward the Fifth " 
surpassed in clearness and purity of style any English prose 
that had preceded it. But the work on which his fame as an 
author chiefly rests is his " Utopia " — the land of Nowhere — ■ 
which contributed a new word to our language. What is . 
chimerical or fanciful we now characterize as Utopian. The 

" Utopia," like Plato's " Republic," which probably furnished 
the idea, is a description of an ideal commonwealth. It is a 
satire on the existing state of society, its leading political and 
social regulations being the reverse' of what was then found 
in Europe. 

58. Surrey and Wyat. — Among the pre-Elizabethan 
poets there are two that deserve particular mention for the 
important influences they exerted on English literature. To 
Surrey belongs the merit of being the first to introduce blank 
verse and the sonnet into English poetry, both of which he 
borrowed from Italy. While sharing with Surrey the honor 
of introducing the Italian sonnet into English verse, Wyat 
has the distinction of conforming strictly with his models. All 
his sonnets, unlike those of his friend, are constructed ac- 
cording to the rules now governing that difficult species of 
verse. 

" In the latter end of the same king (Henry the eight) 
reigne," says an old writer, " sprong up a new company of 
courtly makers of whom Sir Thomas Wyat the elder and Henry 
Earle of Surrey were the two chieftains, who having travailed 
into Italy, and there tasted the sweete and stately measures and 
stile of the Italian Posie, as novices newly crept out of the 



4 o ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

schools of Dante, Ariosto, and Petrarch, they greatly pollished 
our rude and homely manner of vulgar Poesie, from that it 
had bene before, and for that cause may justly be sayd the first 
reformers of our English meetre and stile." 

59. The Elizabethan Age. — Coming now to the age 
of Elizabeth, to which has been given the designation of the 
First Creative Period, we find that literature suddenly rises in 
amount and excellence. The forces slowly accumulating for 
a century quickly burst into blossom. The number of writers, 
embracing every department of literature, is almost beyond 
estimate. Translations from the Latin, Greek, and Italian are 
numerous. It was at this time that Chapman's celebrated ver- 
sion of Homer — " romantic, laborious, Elizabethan " — ap- 
peared. Poetry, in almost all its forms, is cultivated with 
monumental assiduity and success. Theology, as in Foxe's 
" Book of Martyrs " and Hooker's " Ecclesiastical Polity," 
naturally claimed, in this age of religious agitation, no small 
share of attention. Education, history, and philosophy, as we 
shall see, were all treated in noteworthy productions. Stories 
of travel and adventure, tales of romance, and dramas of every 
description were all very popular. The writings in these 
various departments are, for the most part, in a style that far 
surpasses anything that had preceded them, reflecting a higher 
order of culture than England had previously enjoyed. It was 
an age as extraordinary in its literary as in its political activity. 
Apart, from the three great writers — Spenser, Bacon, and 
Shakespeare — reserved for special study, there are a few 
others who, on account of writings of permanent interest, de- 
serve at least brief consideration. 

60. Sir Philip Sidney. — Scarcely any other writer of the 
Elizabethan era awakens greater interest than Sir Philip Sid- 
ney. Of noble birth, he was a distinguished scholar, a brave 
soldier, a promising statesman, a favored courtier, and a bril- 
liant author in both prose and poetry. His conception of 
chivalry was " high-erected thoughts seated in a heart of 
courtesy"; and no other man of his time came nearer embody- 
ing in his life and character this lofty ideal. 

In 1581 Sidney composed his " Defense of Poesie," in reply 



FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 41 

to the attacks of Puritans, who had stigmatized poets as " cat- 
erpillars of the commonwealth." This work, which is still 
read with interest, shows a clear appreciation of the function 
of poetry, and presents its arguments with manly clearness 
and force. There is an absence of affected conceits, and the 
Euphuists are explicitly condemned. " For now," he says, 
" they cast sugar and spice upon every dish that is served to 
the table; like those Indians, not content to wear earrings at 
the fit and natural place of the ears, but they will thrust jewels 
through their nose and lips, because they will be sure to be 
fine." He pronounces the poet " monarch of all sciences. For 
he doth not only show the way, but giveth so sweet a prospect 
into the way as will entice any man to enter into it." 

61. Sir Walter Raleigh. — Soldier, sailor, courtier, states- 
man, historian, poet — these are the different characters in" 
which Sir Walter Raleigh appears. In that age of great 
men — when Spenser, Shakespeare, and Bacon were render- 
ing England famous in literature, and Hawkins, Frobisher, 
and Drake were making her powerful on the sea — the figure 
of Raleigh is not dwarfed. In the momentous events of the 
time, which involved all subsequent history; in the conflicts 
between Roman supremacy and Protestant independence ; in the 
contest with Spain which was to decide the sovereignty of the 
seas and the peopling of the new world, he had, as counsellor 
of the queen and admiral of the fleet, no insignificant share. 
His versatility of genius was almost unexampled; and to what- 
ever form of activity he turned his attention, he exhibited effi- 
ciency and achieved distinction. His capacious mind was 
equally at home in devising a comprehensive state policy, in 
managing practical details, and in cultivating the graces of lit- 
erature. 

62. His "History of the World."— With the death of 
Elizabeth in 1603 his fortunes began to decline. He incurred 
the displeasure of James I. First deprived of his offices, he 
was finally imprisoned on a charge of conspiracy. In spite of 
his innocence, eloquent defence, and admirable bearing, he was 
adjudged guilty and sentenced to death. The king did not ven- 
ture to execute the sentence; and after being brought on the 



42 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

scaffold, Raleigh was reprieved and led back to the Tower. 
He employed the thirteen tedious years of his imprisonment in 
study, and in 1614 he published his " History of the World." 
It is an unfinished work, coming down only to the year 170 b. c. 
As a record of facts, it has long since been superseded; but it 
still possesses interest as the best specimen of historical prose 
that had yet appeared in England. Raleigh's large experience 
and practical sense preserved him from pedantry, while his 
reflections are often striking and sometimes eloquent. " O elo- 
quent, just, and mighty death!" he exclaims, "whom none 
could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou 
hast done; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only 
hast cast out of the world and despised; thou hast drawn to- 
gether all the far-fetched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and 
ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow 
words, hie jacet! " 

63. Poetic Profusion. — The poetic activity of the First 
Creative Period is astonishing. The list of poets contains no 
fewer than two hundred names, and many of them were pro- 
lific writers. The poetry of this time exhibits all the exuberant 
vigor of youth, and often also, as might be expected, a youthful 
immaturity. The choice of subjects is frequently unhappy, and 
naturalness of style is often supplanted by pedantic affectations. 
Except in the case of a few master-spirits, the wine of poetry 
had not yet had time to run clear. 

64. Elizabethan Lyrics. — Apart from the drama, the 
lyrical productions are by far the most successful, and some of 
them are admirable in form and spirit, comparing favorably 
with the efforts of a later day. The Elizabethan lyric orig- 
inated, not among the people, but largely among the cultured 
circles of the court. The poets of this period were not inaptly 
styled " courtly makers." The subjects are generally erotic, 
and the treatment prevailingly objective. What appeals to the 
senses, rather than to the reflective powers, is made prominent 
The lyrical measures are exceedingly varied, though the basis 
is almost always iambic. The influences producing this rich 
variety were threefold: (1) the old national metre with its 
assonance and alliteration; (2) the metrical forms of France 



FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. . 43 

and Italy, which were extensively imitated; and (3) the clas- 
sical metres, which were studied with enthusiasm. 

65. Origin of the Drama. — The modern drama has an 
ecclesiastical origin. Its beginnings are found in the Miracle 
plays, which, during the latter part of the Middle Ages, were 
common not only in England, but throughout all Europe. These 
plays, sometimes called Mysteries, represented scenes in sacred 
history and in the lives of saints. They were written by eccle- 
siastics, and performed under the auspices of the church, in 
abbeys and cathedrals. At a time when preaching was un- 
usual, they were employed to instruct the people in the his- 
torical portions of the Scripture. Subsequently, they were per- 
formed by trading companies in the towns, who used movable 
platforms called pageants. In spite of their religious origin 
and aim, these plays often degenerated into gross irreverence 
and buffoonery; and at their best, judged by present standards, 
they were crude in form and style. 

66. The Moralities. — The Miracle plays were succeeded 
by the Moralities, which introduced as dramatis persona: the 
leading virtues and vices. They satisfied a popular love of 
allegory, and retained a hold on the public mind till the time 
of Elizabeth. One of the last dramatic representations attended 
by the queen was a Morality, entitled the " Contention be- 
tween Liberality and Prodigality," and performed in the year 
1600. Sometimes, along with the virtues and vices, characters 
from real life were introduced; and by thus touching upon 
current events and existing manners, the Morality gained an 
additional element of popularity. A further approach to the 
modern drama was made by the Interludes, a sort of farcical 
representation invented by John Heywood early in the sixteenth 
century, and designed to relieve the tediousness of the Miracle 
play or Morality. 

67. First Comedy and Tragedy. — The first English 
comedy was " Ralph Royster Doyster," written by Nicholas 
Udall, headmaster of Eton and translator of Terence. The 
exact date of its composition is not known, but it appeared 
prior to 1551. Unlike the Miracle and Moral plays, it is di- 
vided into acts and scenes — an advance in dramatic form sug- 



44 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

gested by classical models. The first regular tragedy, entitled 
" Gorboduc," followed a few years later. It was written by 
Thomas Sackville, and performed before the queen in 1562. 
It exhibits the first application of blank verse to dramatic com- 
position in England. Like the comedy just spoken of, its form 
was affected by Greek and Roman models, with which Sack- 
ville had become acquainted at Oxford and Cambridge. It is 
chiefly notable as introducing the splendid theatrical outburst 
of the Elizabethan era. Before the close of the sixteenth cen- 
tury there appeared a large number of dramatists, whose works 
possess not simply historical interest, but also intrinsic excel- 
lence. Among the predecessors of Shakespeare were Kyd, Lyly, 
Peele, Greene, and Marlowe. 

68. Early Theaters. — Special buildings for dramatic en- 
tertainments were not erected till late in the sixteenth century. 
Before that time the plays were acted in tents, wooden sheds, 
courtyards of inns, and cock-pits — the name pit, applied to the 
lowest place in theaters, still suggesting this association. The 
first building in London for dramatic purposes was erected in 
1576. It was speedily followed by others; and before the close 
of the century eleven theatres were built, chiefly on the south- 
ern or Surrey bank of the Thames, in order to be beyond the 
jurisdiction of the Puritan city government. The most famous 
of these theatres, because of its association with Shakespeare, 
was The Globe, so called from its sign, which represented Atlas 
supporting the world, with the striking motto, " Totus mundus 
a git histrionem." 

These early theatres were all built after the same model, 
suggested, no doubt, by the enclosed courts of inns. A central 
platform served for the stage, which was surrounded by seats 
except on one side reserved for a dressing room. The upper 
galleries, which extended around the entire building, were oc- 
cupied by boxes. This arrangement generally led to the adop- 
tion of octagonal-shaped buildings. Most of the theatres were 
uncovered, except immediately over the stage. There was no 
movable scenery, and the female parts were acted by men and 
boys. A placard, bearing the name of Rome, Paris, or London, 
as the ease might be, indicated the scene of the action. The 



JIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 45 

plays began in the forenoon, and were attended by people of 
every social condition. In spite of the opposition of the Puritan 
corporation of London, the drama made rapid progress; and in 
one generation it passed from infancy to full maturity, exhibit- 
ing a compass, strength, and majesty unparalleled in the literary 
history of any other country. 

69. " Rare Ben Johnson." — Among the minor dramatists 

— Greene, Marlowe, Beaumont, Fletcher, Massinger, and others 

— there is one that seems to deserve more particular mention. 
In the Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey a slab bears the 
simple inscription, " O Rare Ben Johnson." Though two and a 
half centuries have passed since it was carved there, the literary 
world, with remarkable unanimity, has approved it as just. He 
was a strong, learned, large-minded, and big-hearted piece of 
manhood — John Bull personified, as Whipple suggests. 

Ben Jonson was born in London in 1573. After a brief 
course at Cambridge, he became a soldier in the Netherlands, 
where he distinguished himself by his bravery. But military 
life had little charm for him, and after a single campaign he 
returned to London and connected himself with a theatre. As 
an actor he failed completely. But as a dramatic author he 
was more fortunate, and in 1596 his comedy, " Every Man in 
his Humor," in which Shakespeare acted a part, established 
his reputation. It was about this time that the acquaintance 
between the two dramatists began. We have a pleasing con- 
temporary picture of them as they met, along with Beaumont, 
Fletcher, and other poets, at the Falcon Tavern, the home of 
the Mermaid Club founded by Raleigh. " Many were the wit 
combats," says Fuller, " betwixt Shakespeare and Ben Jonson, 
which two I behold like a Spanish great galleon and an Eng- 
lish man-of-war; Master Jonson, like the former, was built far 
higher in learning; solid, but slow in his performances. Shake- 
speare, with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter 
in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about and take advan- 
tage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention." 

70. Lyrical Gifts. — After the success of " Every Man in 
his Humor," Jonson wrote, at pretty regular intervals, a series 
of dramas, several of which — " Volpone," " The Silent Woman," 



46 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

and " The Alchemist " — occupy a high rank in dramatic liter- 
ature. But he was a lyrical as well as dramatic poet. It has 
even been contended that lyrical poetry was his special sphere. 
However that may be, he undoubtedly possessed lyrical gifts of 
a high order, as may be seen in the well-known song, begin- 
ning:— 

" Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 
And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
I would not change for thine." 



FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 



EDMUND SPENSER. 

7-1. His Position. — For more than one hundred and fifty 
years no poet worthy to bear the mantle of Chaucer had ap- 
peared in England. But, as we have seen, mighty movements 
had been going on in Europe, — the revival of letters, great in- 
ventions and discoveries, and the widespread religious move- 
ment known as the Reformation. It was an age of great 
thoughts and aspirations and of marvellous achievement. The 
time had at length come, under the prosperous and illustrious 
reign of Elizabeth, for English greatness to mirror itself in 
literature. A group of great writers arose. To Edmund Spen- 
ser belongs the honor of having been the first genius to re- 
flect the greatness of his age and country in an imperishable 
poem, and to add new lustre to a splendid period in English 
history. 

72. Few Biographical Details. — As with Chaucer, we 
have to lament the meagreness of detail connected with the life 
of Spenser. The year 1552, which is determined by an inci- 
dental and not wholly conclusive reference in one of his son- 
nets, is commonly accepted as the year of his birth. The place 
of his birth, not otherwise known, is likewise determined by a 
passage in his " Prothalamion," a poem written near the close 
of his life: — 

" At length they all to merry London came, 
To merry London, my most kindly nurse, 
That to me gave this life's first native source, 
Though from another place I take my name, 
An house of ancient fame." 

73. At Cambridge. — Nothing is known of his parents ; 
but, as he was a charity student, it is to be inferred that they 
were in humble circumstances. He received his preparatory 
training at the Merchant Taylor School, and at the age of 

47 



4 8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

seventeen entered Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, where he earned 
his board by acting as sizar or waiter. He took the degree of 
Bachelor of Arts in 1572, and that of Master of Arts four 
years later. The particulars of his life at Cambridge are, for 
the most part, matters of mere conjecture. We may safely 
infer from his broad scholarship that he was a diligent student. 
His writings show an intimate acquaintance, not only with 
classical antiquity, but also with the great writers — Chaucer, 
Dante, Tasso, Ariosto, Marot — of the dawning modern era. 

74. " The Shepherd's Calendar." — A friendship with Ga- 
briel Harvey, a fellow of Pembroke Hall, and an enthusiastic 
writer and educator, was not without influence upon his poetical 
career. Harvey encouraged Spenser in his early literary 
efforts; but it is fortunate that his advice failed to turn the 
poet's genius to the drama. After leaving the university, 
Spenser spent a year or two in the north of England (it is 
impossible to be more definite), where he wrote his first im- 
portant work, " The Shepherd's Calendar." It was inspired by 
a deep but unfortunate affection for a country lass, who appears 
in the poem under the anagrammatic name of Rosalinda Her 
identity, a puzzle to critics, remained for a long time unde- 
termined; but an American writer, with great ingenuity, has 
shown almost beyond question that the young lady was Rose 
Daniel, sister to the poet of that name. 1 

75. Residence in Ireland. — Upon the advice of Harvey, 
Spenser went to London. He met Sir Philip Sidney, by whom 
he was introduced at court, and put in the way of preferment. 
He fell in readily with court life, wore a pointed beard and 
fashionable mustache, and acquired a light tone in speaking 
of women — a levity that soon gave place to a truly chivalrous 
regard. In 1580 he was appointed secretary to Lord Grey, 
deputy to Ireland, and accompanied that official through the 
bloody scenes connected with the suppression of Desmond's re- 
bellion. The duties assigned him were ably performed; and. 
in recognition of his services, he received in 1 586, as a grant, 
Kilcolman Castle and three thousand acres of land in the 

1. See Atlantic Monthly, November, 1858. 



EDMUND SPENSER. 49 

county of Cork. Here he afterward made his home, occasion- 
ally visiting London to seek preferment or to publish some new 
work. Though his home was not without the attraction of 
beautiful surroundings, he looked upon his life there as a sort 
of banishment. In one of his poems he speaks of — 

" My luckless lot, 
That banisht had myself, like wight forlore, 
Into that waste, where I was quite forgot." 

76. Visit of Raleigh. — In 1589 he was visited by Sir 
Walter Raleigh, to whom he read the first three books of the 
" Faery Queene." Seated in the midst of an attractive land- 
scape, the poet and the hero make a pleasing picture as they 
discuss the merits of a work that is to begin a new era in Eng- 
lish literature. Raleigh was so delighted with the poem that 
he urged the author to take it to London — advice that was 
eagerly followed. The poet was granted an audience by Eliza- 
beth, and favored with the patronage of several noble ladies ; 
but further than a pension of fifty pounds, which does not 
appear to have been regularly paid, he received no substantial 
recognition. 

77. Disappointment at Court. — This result was a dis- 
appointment to Spenser, who had hoped that his literary fame 
would lead to higher political preferment. In " Colin Clout's 
Come Home Again," a poem in which the incidents of this 
visit are embodied, he speaks of the court in a tone of dis- 
appointment and bitterness. In a prefatory letter addressed to 
Raleigh, who figures in the poem under the title of " Shepherd 
of the Ocean," Spenser says that the work agrees " with 
the truth in circumstance and matter " ; and from this declara- 
tion it may be inferred that his portrayal of court life was 
drawn, not from imagination, but from experience : — 

" For, sooth to say, it is no sort of life 
For shepherd fit to lead in that same place, 
Where each one seeks with malice, and with strife, 
To thrust down other in foul disgrace, 
Himself to raise : and he doth soonest rise 



50 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

That best can handle his deceitful wit 
In subtle shifts." 

78. Beginning of the " Faery Queene." — The first three 
books of the "Faery Queene" were published in 1590, and 
were received with an outburst of applause. Spenser took 
rank as the first of living poets. " The admiration of this 
great poem," says Hallam, "was unanimous and enthusiastic. 
No academy had been trained to carp at his genius with min- 
ute cavilling; no recent popularity, no traditional fame (for 
Chaucer was rather venerated than much in the hands of 
the reader) interfered with the immediate recognition of his 
supremacy. The ' Faery Queene ' became at once the de- 
light of every accomplished gentleman, the model of every 
poet, and the solace of every scholar." Spenser remained in 
London about a year in the enjoyment of his newly won repu- 
tation and in the pursuit of preferment. But in the latter 
he was disappointed, and returned to Ireland, as we have seen, 
with a feeling of resentment toward the manners and morals 
of the court. 

79. Marriage. — In 1594 he married a lady by the name 
of Elizabeth — her family name remaining uncertain. In his 
" Amoretti, or Sonnets," he describes the beginning and pro- 
gress of his affection. These sonnets are interesting, not only 
for their purity and delicacy of feeling, but also for the light 
they throw on the poet's life. Whatever may have been the 
real character of the Irish maiden he celebrates, in the poems 
she is idealized into great beauty. It was only after a pro- 
tracted suit that the poet met with encouragement and was 
able to say, — 

"After long storms' and tempests' sad assay, 
Which hardly I endured heretofore, 
In dread of death, and dangerous dismay, 
With which my silly bark was tossed sore ; 
I do at length descry the happy shore, 
Tn which I hope ere long for to arrive: 
Fair soil it seems from far, and fraught with store 
Of all that dear and dainty isatrve." 



EDMUND SPENSER. SI 

80. Disaster and Death. — In 1598 Spenser was appointed 
sheriff of Cork; and Tyrone's rebellion breaking out soon 
afterward, Kilcolman Castle was sacked and burned. The 
poet and his wife escaped with difficulty, and it is probable 
that their youngest child, who was left behind, perished in the 
flames. In 1599 Spenser, overcome by misfortunes, died in a 
common London inn, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, 
near the tomb of his master, Chaucer. His life was full of 
disappointment. He never obtained the preferment to which 
he aspired, and he felt his failure with all the keenness of 
sensitive genius. And yet, under different and happier cir- 
cumstances, his great natural gifts would probably not have 
borne so rich fruitage. 

81. Nobility of Character. — All that we know of Spenser 
is of good report. He had the esteem and friendship of the 
best people of his time ; he was faithful in his attachments and 
irreproachable in his outward life. In his comparative seclu- 
sion he was able to forget the hard realities of his lot and to 
dwell much of the time in an ideal world; and the poetic crea- 
tions, which he elaborated in the quietude of Kilcolman Castle, 
had the good fortune to gain immediate and hearty recogni- 
tion. He has been aptly styled " the poet's poet " ; and it is 
certain that his writings, especially the " Faery Queene," have 
been a perennial source of inspiration and power to his suc- 
cessors. Pope read him in his old age with the same zest 
as in his youth. Dryden looked up to him as a master; and 
Milton called him " our sage and serious poet, whom I dare be 
known to think a better teacher than Scotus or Aquinas." 

82. His Masterpiece. — As already stated, the first three 
books of the " Faery Queene " were published in 1590. Three 
more books appeared in 1596 — an interval that indicates the 
conscientious labor Spenser bestowed upon his productions. 
The plan of the work contemplated no fewer than twelve 
books ; but in its present incomplete state it is one of the 
longest poems in the language. There is a tradition that 
three unpublished books were burned . in the destruction of 
Kilcolman Castle, but it is probably without foundation. The 
" Faery Queene " is Spenser's masterpiece. Keenly sym- 



52 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

pathizing with all the great interests and movements of his 
time, he embodied in this work his noblest thoughts and feel- 
ings. Here his genius had full play and attained the highest 
results of which it was capable. In this poem the Eliza- 
bethan Age is reflected in all its splendor. 

83. The Spenserian Stanza. — The stanza of the poem 
was the poet's own invention and properly bears his name. 
It is singularly melodious and effective, and has since been 
made the medium of some of the finest poetry in our language, 
— Burns's " Cotter's Saturday Night," Shelley's " Revolt of 
Islam," Byron's " Childe Harold," and many other poems. 
Though somewhat difficult in its structure, Spenser handled it 
with masterly ease and skill, and poured forth his treasures of 
description, narration, reflection, feeling, and fancy, without 
embarrassment. A single stanza, descriptive of morning, must 
suffice by way of illustration : — 

" By this the northerne wagoner had set 
His sevenfold teme behind the stedfast starre 
That was in ocean waves yet never wet, 
But firme is fixt, and sendeth light from farre 
To al that in the wide deepe wandring arre ; 
And chearefull channticlere with his note shrill 
Had warned once, that Phoebus fiery carre 
In hast was climbing up the easterne hill, 
Full envious that night so long his roome did fill." 

84. The Poem an Allegory. — The poem is itself an alle- 
gory, a form that the poet took some pains to justify. In a 
prefatory letter addressed to Raleigh, the author fully explains 
his plan and makes clear what would otherwise have re- 
mained obscure. " The generall end, therefore, of all the 
booke," he says, " is to fashion a gentleman or noble person 
in vertuous and gentle discipline. ... I chose the his- 
toric of King Arthure, as most fit for the excellencie of his 
person, beeing made famous by many men's former works, and 
also furthest from the danger of envie, and suspicion of present 
time." Prince Arthur is the central figure of the poem, in 
whose person, Spenser says, " I sette forth magnificence in 



EDMUND SPENSER. 53 

particular, which vertue (according to Aristotle and the rest) 
is the perfection of all the rest and containeth in it them all." 
By magnificence Spenser meant magnanimity, which, accord- 
ing to Aristotle, contains all the moral virtues. Twelve other 
knights are made the representatives or patrons of so many 
separate virtues. 

85. Struggle for Holiness. — The allegory of the " Faery 
Queene " is nowhere more worthy of study than in the first 
book. Like Bunyan's pilgrim, the Red Cross Knight shows the 
conflicts of the human soul in its effort to attain to holiness. 
This is the sublimest of all conflicts. The knight, clad in 
Christian armor, sets forth to make war upon the dragon, the 
Old Serpent. After a time the light of heaven is shut out by 
clouds, and the warrior loses his way in the " wandering 
wood," the haunt of Error. 

" For light she hated as the deadly bale, 
Ay wont in desert darkness to remaine, 
Where plain none might her see, nor she see any plain." 

Only after a long and bitter struggle, typifying the con- 
flicts of the earnest soul in search of truth, does the Knight 
succeed in vanquishing this dangerous foe. This danger 
passed, another follows. The hero, with his fair companion, 
at length encounters — 

" An aged sire, in long blacke weedes yclad, 
His feet all bare, his beard all hoarie gray, 
And by his belt his booke he hanging had ; 
Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad, 
And to the ground his eyes were lowly bent, 
Simple in shew, and voide of malice bad, 
And all the way he prayed, as he went, 
And often knockt his breast, as one that did repent." 

86. Results of Deception. — This was Archimago or 
Hypocrisy, who deceives the Knight with his magic art. Truth 
is made to seem falsehood, and falsehood truth. This decep- 
tion is the cause of all his subsequent trouble, — his struggle 
with Sans Foy or Infidelity, his companionship with Duessa, 



54 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

or Falsehood, his sojourn and trials at the palace of Pride, and 
his capture and imprisonment by the giant Orgoglio or Anti- 
christ. He is finally delivered by Arthur, and conducted by 
Una to the house of Holiness, where he is taught repentance. 
Spiritual discipline frees him from all his stains, and sends 
him forth once more protected with his celestial armor. He 
meets the grim dragon, and after a prolonged conflict gloriously 
triumphs. The book naturally ends with his betrothal to Una 
or Truth, emblematic of eternal union. Through trials and 
suffering to final victory and truth — this is the history of every 
earnest soul; and never before was it portrayed with such mag- 
nificent imagery and in such melodious language. 

87. Lack of Reality. — As will be readily comprehended, 
a striking feature of the poem is its unlikeness to actual life. In 
no small degree it appears artificial and unreal. The personages 
are somewhat shadowy. A large part of the incident and sen- 
timent belongs to an ideal age of chivalry. All this is apt to 
affect the realistic or prosaic reader unpleasantly. But the 
poem should be approached in the spirit with which it was writ- 
ten. Instead of stopping to criticise the ideas, fashions, and 
superstitions of the Middle Ages, we should surrender ourselves 
into the magician's hands, and follow him submissively and 
sympathetically through the ideal realms into which he leads 
us. The poem then becomes, in the words of Lowell, " the land 
of pure heart's ease, where no ache or sorrow of spirit can 
come." 

88. Characteristics as a Poet. — Spenser was surpassingly 
rich in imagination — that faculty without which no great poem 
is possible. He possessed an extraordinary power for appre- 
ciating and portraying beauty. His mind was extremely capa- 
cious; and, gathering all the literary treasures of the past, 
whether mediaeval, classic, or Christian, he gave them new and 
fadeless forms. His invention was almost inexhaustible. His 
facility in description sometimes betrayed him into tedious ex- 
cess. In his fondness for details, he occasionally wrote passages 
that are simply nauseating. His style lacks the classic qualities 
of brevity, force, and self-restraint. Rut we shall nowhere else 
find a more flowing and melodious verse, an atmosphere of finer 



EDMUND SPENSER. 55 

sentiment, and a larger movement or richer coloring. He may 
be fairly styled the Rubens of English poetry. Every canto of 
the " Faery Queene " presents passages in which thought, dic- 
tion, and melody are combined in exquisite harmony. 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

(See introductory note under this heading, p. 15.) 
The character of the Revival of Learning, Green, " History of 
the English People," vol. II., Bk. V., Ch. 2, Taine, " English Liter- 
ature," vol. I., p. 143-156, Adams, " Civilization during the Middle 
Ages, Ch. 15. The ballad of " Chevy Chase," Percy, " Reliques 
of Ancient English Poetry," Bates, " Ballad Book," Addison, Spec- 
tator, Nos. 70, 74. A study of the Robin Hood Ballads, Percy, 
Bates, and Ward, " The English Poets," vol. I. A description of 
the religion of the Utopians, More, " Utopia," last section. A re- 
view of Udall's " Roister Doister," Gayley, " Representative Eng- 
lish Comedies," pp. 107-194. 

The character of Elizabeth as a woman and sovereign, Green, 
"History of the English People," vol. II., pp. 316-323. The plot 
of Ben Jonson's " Alchemist," Thayer, " The Best Elizabethan 
Plays." An outline of Marlowe's " Jew of Mlalta," Thayer, " The 
Best Elizabethan Plays." 

SPENSER. 

Hillard's or Todd's " Spenser's Works " ; Kitchin, " The Faerie 
Queene, Book 1"; Church, "Life of Spenser" (English Men of 
Letters Series) ; Lowell, " Among M|y Books," vol. II., Dowden, 
Litt ell's Living Age, 141:771. A study of "Mother Hubbard's 
Tale." The story of Canto II. of the " Faerie Queene." A de- 
scription of the betrothal of Una and the Red Cross Knight in 
Canto XXII. A collection of poetic passages from Cantos I. and II. 

Canto I. of the "Faerie Queen" is given in the selections of 
Part II. 



56 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



FRANCIS BACON. 

89. Rank. — In this era of great writers the name of 
Francis Bacon, after those of Shakespeare and Spenser, stands 
easily first. He was great as a lawyer, as a statesman, as a 
philosopher, as an author — great in everything, alas ! but char- 
acter. Though his position in philosophy is still a matter of 
dispute, there can be little doubt that he deserves to rank with 
Plato and Aristotle, who for two thousand years ruled the phil- 
osophic world. 

90. Parentage. — Francis Bacon was born in London, Jan. 
22, 1561. His father, Sir Nicholas Bacon, was a man full 
of wit and wisdom, comprehensive in intellect, retentive to a re- 
markable degree in memory, and so dignified in appearance and 
bearing that Queen Elizabeth was accustomed to say, " My 
Lord Keeper's soul is well lodged." His mother was no less 
remarkable as a woman. She was the daughter of Sir Anthony 
Cooke, tutor to King Edward VI, from whom she received a 
careful education. She was distinguished not only for her 
womanly and conjugal virtues, but also for her learning, having 
translated a work from Italian and another from Latin. 

91. Characteristics of the Age. — Thus Bacon was for- 
tunate in his parents, whose intellectual superiority he inherited, 
and also in the time of his birth, " when," he says, " learning 
had made her third circuit; when the art of printing gave books 
with a liberal hand to men of all fortunes ; when the nation 
had emerged from the dark superstitions of popery ; when peace 
throughout all Europe permitted the enjoyment of foreign 
travel and free ingress to foreign scholars; and, above all, when 
a sovereign of the highest intellectual attainments, at the same 
time that she encouraged learning and learned men, gave an 
impulse to the arts and a chivalric and refined tone to the man 
ners of the people." 

92. Youthful Precocity. — He was delicate in constitution, 




jy hm. 



FRANCIS BACON. 57 

but extraordinary in intellectual power. Son of a Lord Keeper, 
a nephew of a Secretary of State, he was brought up in sur- 
roundings that were highly favorable to intellectual culture and 
elegant manners. His youthful precocity attracted attention. 
Queen Elizabeth, delighted with his childish wisdom and grav- 
ity, playfully called him her " Young Lord Keeper." When 
she asked him one day how old he was, with a delicate courtesy 
beyond his years, he replied, " Two years younger than your 
majesty's happy reign." His disposition was reflective and se- 
rious ; and it is related of him that he stole away from his play- 
mates to indulge his spirit of investigation. 

93. University Life. — At the early age of thirteen he 
matriculated in Trinity College, Cambridge, and, with rare pene- 
tration, soon discovered the leading defects in the higher edu- 
cation of the time. The principle of authority prevailed in 
instruction to the suppression of free inquiry. The university 
was engaged, not in broadening the field of knowledge by dis- 
covery of new truth, but in disseminating simply the wisdom of 
the ancients. Aristotle was dictator, from whose utterances 
there was no appeal. " In the universities," he says, " all things 
are found opposite to the advancement of the sciences ; for the 
readings and exercises are here so managed that it cannot easily 
come into any one's mind to think of things out of the common 
road." 

94. Travels. — After a residence of three years at the 
university, he went to Paris under the care of the English am- 
bassador at the French court. He was sent on a secret mis- 
sion to Elizabeth and discharged its duties with such ability as 
to win the queen's approbation. He afterward travelled in the 
French provinces and met many distinguished men — states- 
men, philosophers, aiithors — who were impressed by his extra- 
ordinary gifts and attainments. The death of his father re- 
called him to England in 1579; and finding himself without 
adequate means to lead a life of philosophic investigation, it 
became necessary for him, as he expresses it, " to think how to 
live, instead of living only to think." 

95. Student of Law.— The two roads open to him were 
law and politics, and with his antecedents he naturally inclined 



58 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

to the latter. He applied to his uncle, Lord Burleigh, for a 
position; but the prime minister, fearing, it is said, the abilities 
of his nephew, used his influence to prevent the young appli- 
cant from obtaining a place of importance and emolument. 
Thus disappointed in his hopes, Bacon was reluctantly obliged 
to betake himself to the law. He gave himself with industry 
to his calling, and in a few years attained distinction for legal 
knowledge and skill. As might naturally be supposed from the 
philosophic cast of his mind, his studies were not confined to 
precedents and authorities, but extended to the universal prin- 
ciples of justice and the whole circle of knowledge. In 1590 
he was made counsel-extraordinary to the queen — a position, 
it seems, of more honor than profit. 

96. In Politics. — With this appointment began his polit- 
ical career. He sought worldly honors and wealth, but chiefly, 
as there is reason to believe, in order that he might at last en- 
joy a competency, which would allow him to retire from official 
cares and pursue his philosophical studies without distraction. 
In 1592 he was elected a member of Parliament from Middle- 
sex. He advocated comprehensive improvements in the law. 
On one occasion he incurred the queen's displeasure by oppos- 
ing the early payment of certain subsidies to which the House 
had consented. When her displeasure was formally communi- 
cated to him, he calmly replied that " he spoke in discharge 
of his conscience and duty to God, to the queen, and to his 
country." 

97. An Orator. — His connection with Parliament was 
characterized by activity, and his integrity at this time kept 
him from sacrificing the interests of England at the foot of the 
throne. As an orator he became affluent, weighty, and eloquent. 
" Xo man," says Ben Jonson, " ever spake more neatly, more 
pressly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness 
in what he uttered : no member of his speech but consisted of its 
own graces. His hearers could not cough or look aside from 
him without loss; he commanded when he spoke, and had his 
judges angry and pleased at his devotion. No man had their 
affections more in his power; the fear of every man that heard 
him was lest he should make an end." 



FRANCIS BACON. 59 

98. Disappointments. — In 1594 the office of solicitor- 
general became vacant, and Bacon set to work to obtain it. 
Every influence within his reach was brought to bear upon the 
queen. Lord Essex, the favorite of Elizabeth, interested him- 
self especially in his behalf. But every effort proved unavail- 
ing. Bacon, like Spenser, felt the bitterness of seeking prefer- 
ment at court, and complained that he was like a child following 
a bird which, when almost within reach, continually flew far- 
ther. " I am weary of it," he said, " as also of wearying my 
friends." 

To assuage his keen disappointment, Essex bestowed upon 
him an estate, valued at eighteen hundred pounds, in the beau- 
tiful village of Twickenham. The earl continued to befriend 
him through a long period. When Bacon wished to marry 
Lady Hatton, a woman of large fortune, Essex supported his 
suit with a strong letter to her parents. But in spite of Bacon's 
merit and his noble patron's warmth, the heart of the lady re- 
mained untouched; and fortunately for Bacon, as a biographer 
suggestively remarks, she afterward became the wife of his 
great rival, Sir Edward Coke. 

99. Ingratitude. — When, a few years later, Essex, through 
his imprudence, incurred the queen's disfavor, and by treason 
forfeited his life, Bacon appeared against him. For this act 
he has been severely censured. Macaulay, especially, in his 
famous essay, displays the zeal of an advocate in making him 
appear in a bad light, affirming that " he exerted his profes- 
sional talents to shed the earl's blood, and his literary talents to 
blacken the earl's memory." Though it cannot be maintained 
that Bacon acted the part of a high-minded, generous friend, 
or that his course was in any way justifiable, an impartial sur- 
vey of the facts does not justify Macaulay's severity. 

100. Essays. — In 1597 Bacon published a collection of ten 
essays, which were afterward increased to fifty-eight. If he had 
written nothing else, these alone would have entitled him to 
an honorable place in English literature. Though brief in form, 
they are weighty in thought. The style is clear; and the lan- 
guage, as in the essay on " Adversity," often rises into great 
beauty. They were composed, as he tells us, as a recreation 



60 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

from severer studies, but contain, nevertheless, the richest re- 
sults of his thinking and experience. They were popular from 
the time of their publication; they were at once translated into 
French, Italian, and Latin, and no fewer than six editions ap- 
peared during the author's life. 

101. Rapid Advancement. — After the accession of James 
I in 1603, whose favor he made great efforts to placate, Bacon 
rose rapidly in position and honor. That year he was elevated 
to the order of knighthood, and the following year appointed 
salaried counsel to the king — a mark of favor almost with- 
out precedent. In 1613 he was advanced to the office of attor- 
ney-general. In 1617 he was created Lord Keeper of the Great 
Seal of England — a dignity of which he was proud ; and the 
following year he was made Lord High Chancellor, the summit 
of his ambition and political elevation. 

102. Venality and Fall. — Fond of elegant surroundings, 
he lived in great state, with liveried servants, beautiful man- 
sions, and magnificent gardens. He was inconsiderate and lav- 
ish in his expenditures; and while laboring with conscientious 
fidelity to improve the laws of the kingdom and to facilitate the 
administration of justice, his personal character, it must be ac- 
knowledged, did not remain above suspicion and reproach. 
He was unduly subservient to the king; and to maintain his 
outward splendor, he accepted presents, if not bribes, from per- 
sons interested in his judicial decisions. Being tried by Parlia- 
ment, he made confession to twenty-eight charges of corrup- 
tion, whereupon he was condemned to pay a fine of forty thou- 
sand pounds, to be imprisoned in the Tower during the king's 
pleasure, and to be debarred from any office in the state. Thus, 
in 1621, Bacon fell from his high position, ruined in fortune and 
broken in spirit. Though released from the Tower after an 
imprisonment of two days, and relieved also of the payment 
of the fine, he never recovered from his disgrace. He died in 
1626. 

103. Baconian Philosophy. — Bacon looked upon knowl- 
edge, not as an end in itself, to be enjoyed as a luxury, but as 
a means of usefulness in the service of men. The mission of 
philosophy is to ameliorate man's condition, — to increase his 



FRANCIS BACON. 61 

power, to multiply his enjoyments, and to alleviate his suffer- 
ings. He discarded the speculative philosophy which seeks to 
build up a system from -the inner resources of the mind. How- 
ever admirable in logical acuteness and consistency, such sys- 
tems are apt to be without truth or utility. " The wit and mind 
of man," says Bacon, " if it work upon matter, which is the 
contemplation of the creatures of God, worketh according to 
the stuff and is limited thereby; but if it work upon itself, as 
the spider worketh his web, then it is endless and brings forth 
indeed cobwebs of learning, admirable for the fineness of thread 
and work, but of no substance or profit.'' 

He constantly urged an investigation of nature, whereby 
philosophy might be planted on a solid foundation and receive 
continual accretions of truth. Investigation, experiment, verifi- 
cation — these are characteristic features of the Baconian phi- 
losophy and the powerful instruments with which modern sci- 
ence has achieved its marvellous results. 

104. " Instauratio Magna." — The colossal cast of Bacon's 
mind is seen in his great philosophical scheme entitled the " In- 
stauratio Magna, or the Great Institution of True Philosophy," 
which embodies his principal writings. It was to consist of six 
parts, the completion of which was necessarily beyond the 
power of one man or even of one age : I. Divisions of the 
Sciences ; II. Novum Organum, or Precepts for the interpreta- 
tion of nature ; III. Phenomena of the Universe, or a natural 
and experimental history on which to found philosophy; IV. A 
scale or ladder for the understanding; V. Precursors, or An- 
ticipations of the second philosophy; VI. Sound philosophy, or 
active science. 

In the first part of this vast scheme Bacon embodied, in a 
revised form, the " Advancement of Learning," his earliest phil- 
osophical work, published in 1605. It made a complete sur- 
vey of the field of learning, for the purpose of indicating what 
departments of knowledge had received due attention, and 
what subjects yet needed cultivation. It is a rich mine of wis- 
dom and learning. But the most celebrated part of the " In- 
stauratio Magna " is the " Novum Organum," in which Bacon's 
philosophical method is unfolded. It is written in the form of 



62 EX GUSH LITERATURE. 

aphorisms, which exhibit at once a vast sweep and an un- 
rivalled acuteness of intellect. 

105. Intellectual Greatness. — However much men may 
differ in their estimate of Bacon's method and position in phi- 
losophy, all agree in recognizing his intellectual greatness. It 
would be easy to fill pages with the glowing tributes that have 
been paid him, not only by English, but also by French and 
German, writers. Hallam, who is not given to inconsiderate 
panegyric, says : " If we compare what may be found in the 
sixth, seventh, and eighth books ' De Augmentis ' ; in the 'Es- 
says,' the ' History of Henry VII,' and the various short 
treatises contained in his works on moral and political wisdom, 
and on human nature, from experience of which all such wis- 
dom is drawn, with the Rhetoric, Ethics, and Politics of Aris- 
totle, or with the historians most celebrated for their deep in- 
sight into civil society and human character; with Thucydides, 
Tacitus, Phillip de Comines, Machiavel, Davila, Hume, we shall, 
I think, find that one man may almost be compared with all of 
these together." 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Montagu, " Works of Bacon," Craik, " Bacon, His Writings and 
His Philosophy," Church, "Life of Bacon," (English Men of 
Letters), Whately, "Bacon's Essays with Annotations," Maeaulay, 
" Essay on Bacon," Whipple, " Literature of the Age of Eliza- 
beth," Bowen, North American Review, 56:59. 

Bacon as a writer, Church, "Life of Bacon," Ch. 9, Macaulay, 
" Essay on Bacon," latter part, Whipple, " Literature of the Age 
of Elizabeth." The influences that warp human judgment in the 
pursuit of truth, "Novum Organum," Aphorisms 39-44: Bacon's 
views on Unity in Religion, Essay III. A summary of his views 
on high station in life, Essay on " Great Place." His classification 
of the envious and the envied, Essay IX. A synopsis of the essay 
on Friendship. A collection of brief striking passages from the 
I 

A number of the Essays are given in the selections of Part II. 





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FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 63 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 

106. Scanty Details. — If Shakespeare had left an auto- 
biography, we should esteem it one of our greatest literary 
treasures. If some Boswell had dogged his footsteps, noted 
carefully the incidents of his everyday life, and recorded the 
sentiments and thoughts that dropped spontaneously from his 
lips, how eagerly we should read the book to gain a clearer in- 
sight into the great master's soul. As it is, we are shut up to 
very meagre records, to names and dates found in business ac- 
counts or legal documents ; and the greatest genius of all litera- 
ture is concealed behind his works almost in the haze of a 
myth. We are dependent, not upon history, but upon fancy, 
to fill up the measure of what must have been an interesting, 
varied, and bountiful life. 

107. Saxon-Norman Descent. — William Shakespeare was 
born in Stratford-on-Avon, April 23, 1564. On his father's side, 
he was of Saxon lineage ; on his mother's side, he was of Nor- 
man descent; and in his character the qualifies, of these two 
races — Saxon sturdiness and Norman versatility — were ex- 
quisitely harmonized. His father, John Shakespeare, was a 
glover, wool-dealer, and yeoman, who attained prominence in 
Stratford as an alderman and bailiff. He was a man of substan- 
tial qualities, and for many years lived in easy circumstances; 
but afterward, when his son was passing into early manhood, he 
suffered a sad decline in fortune. William's mother, Mary 
Arden, was brought up on a landed estate; and besides inherit- 
ing from her the liner qualities of his mind, the future poet 
probably learned under her influence to appreciate the exceeding 
beauty of gentle and tender womanhood. 

108. Education.— His education was received in the free 
school of Stratford, and included, besides the elementary 
branches of English, the rudiments of classical learning — the 



64 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" small Latin and less Greek " which Ben Jonson attributed to 
him. His acquisitive powers were extraordinary; and, as is 
evident from his works, this elementary training, which appears 
so inadequate, was afterward increased by rich stores of learn- 
ing and wisdom. He exhibits not only a wide general knowl- 
edge, but also a technical acquaintance with several callings, in- 
cluding law, medicine, and divinity. 

109. Marriage. — In 1582, at the youthful age of eighteen, 
he married Ann Hathaway, who was eight years his senior. 
Whether the marriage was a matter of choice or, as some be- 
lieve, a necessity forced upon him, does not clearly appear. 
His wife, the daughter of a substantial yeoman, was not un- 
worthy of him; and the marriage was probably a love match, 
which proudly disdained the disparity in years. It is assumed 
by many critics that the union was necessarily an unhappy one ; 
but an examination of the evidence leads to a different con- 
clusion. In his sonnets there are several loving passages that 
seem to refer to his wife ; and as soon as he had acquired wealth 
in his theatrical career in the metropolis, he returned to Strat- 
ford to spend his last years in the bosom of his family. 

no. In London. — Several years after his» marriage, at the 
age of twenty-two, he went to London. There is a tradition 
that his departure from Stratford was the result of a deer- 
stealing escapade, for which he was sharply prosecuted by an 
irate landlord. Though the poaching is probably not a myth, 
his departure may be satisfactorily explained on other grounds, 
Conscious no doubt of his native genius, it was but natural 
for him to seek his fortune amidst the opportunities afforded in 
a large city. 

His poetic gifts and his acquaintance with the drama, as 
learned through visiting troupes in his native village, naturally 
drew him to the theatre. He held at first a subordinate posi- 
tion, and worked upward by degrees. He recast plavs and 
performed as an actor, for which his handsome and shapely 
form peculiarly fitted him. " The top of his performance." says 
an old historian, " was the Ghost in his own Hamlet." His 
progress was rapid, and at the end of six years he bad achieved 
no small reputation. His success aroused the envy of some of 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 65 

his fellow-playwrights; and Greene, in a scurrilous pamphlet, 
accused him of plagiarism, calling him " an upstart crow beau- 
tified with our feathers." 

in. His Ability Recognized. — His ability attracted the 
attention of the court and the nobility. To the young Earl of 
Southampton he dedicated in 1593 his "Venus and Adonis," 
which the poet, in a short and manly dedicatory letter, styles 
" the first heir of my invention ; " and in return he is said to 
have received from that nobleman the princely gift of a thou- 
sand pounds. In Spenser's " Colin Clout's Come Home Again," 
we find this reference to Shakespeare : — 

" And here, though last not least, is Aetion ; 
A gentler shepherd may nowhere be found; 
Whose muse, full of high thought's invention 
Doth, like himself, heroically sound." 

His plays delighted Elizabeth, who was a steady patron of 
the drama; and there is a tradition that the queen was so 
pleased with FalstafY in " King Henry the Fourth," that she 
requested the poet to continue the character in another play 
and to portray him in love. The result was " The Merry Wives 
of Windsor." 

112. Business Sagacity. — Unlike many of his fellow- 
dramatists, Shakespeare avoided a life of extravagance and dis- 
sipation. He showed that high literary genius is not inconsist- 
ent with business sagacity. Not content with being an actor 
and author, he became a large shareholder in the Blackfriars 
and the Globe, the two leading theatres of his day. Wealth ac- 
cumulated; and with an affectionate remembrance of his native 
town, he purchased in 1597 a handsome residence in Stratford. 
He continued to make judicious investments ; and a careful esti- 
mate places his income in 1608 at about four hundred pounds a 
year — equivalent to $12,000 at the present time. 

113. Glimpses of Social Life. — We have several pleasing 
glimpses of his social life in London. He had a reputation for 
civility and honesty; he frequented the Mermaid, where he met 
Ben Jonson and the other leading wits of his day. Beaumont 
probably had him in mind when he wrote : — 



66 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" What thing's have we seen 
Done at the Mermaid! Heard words that have been 
So nimble, and so full of subtile flame, 
As if that every one from whence they came 
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
Of his dull life." 

The following testimony of the rough, upright Ben Jonson 
is of special value : " I loved the man, and do honor his mem- 
ory, on this side idolatry, as much as any. He was indeed hon- 
est, and of an open and free nature ; had an excellent phantasy, 
brave notions, and gentle expressions." 

114. Social Aspirations. — With wealth and genius, it was 
not unnatural for the poet to desire a higher social rank. Ac- 
cordingly, we find that in 1599, no doubt through his influence, 
a coat-of-arms was granted to his father. He grew tired of the 
actor's profession, chafing under its low social standing and its 
enslaving exactions upon his time and person. In one of his 
sonnets he writes : — 

" Alas ! 'tis true I have gone here and there, 
And made myself a motley to the view ; 
Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, 
Made old offences of affections new ; 
Most times it is that I have looked on truth 
Askance and strangely." 

115. Retirement to Stratford.—- It is probable that Shake- 
speare ceased to be an actor in 1604, though he continued to 
write for the stage, and produced all his greatest master- 
pieces after that date. About 161 1 he retired to his native town 
to live in quiet domestic enjoyment. How great the contrast 
with the excitements, labors, and vanities of his career in Lon- 
don ! The last five years of his life were spent in domestic 
comforts, local interests, the entertainment of friends, the com- 
position of one or two great dramas, with an occasional visit 
to the scene of his former struggles and triumphs. He died 
April 23, 1616, on the anniversary n\ his birth, and was buried 
in the parish church of Stratford. If we may credit tradition, 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 67 

he rose from a sick bed to entertain Jonson and Drayton, and 
in the convivial excesses of the occasion brought on a fatal re- 
lapse. His tomb bears the following inscription : — 

" Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear, 
To dig the dust enclosed here : 
Blest be the man that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones." 

116. Inner Life. — 'Were the meagre facts in the outward 
life of this great man all that we know of him, how incomplete 
and unsatisfactory our knowledge ! But there is another life 
besides the outward and visible one — a life of the soul. It is 
by the aims, thoughts, and feelings of this interior life that the 
character and greatness of a man are to be judged. Outward 
circumstances are, in a large measure, fortuitous ; at most they 
but aid or hinder the operations of the spirit within — plume 
or clip its wings. It is when we turn to this interior life of 
Shakespeare, and measure its creations and experiences, that 
we learn his unapproachable greatness. Many other authors 
have surpassed him in the variety and splendor of outward cir- 
cumstances ; many warriors and statesmen and princes have 
been occupied with larger national interests; but where is the 
man that can compare with him in the richness and extent of 
this life of the soul? 

117. Range of Intellect. — There is no class of society, 
from kings to beggars, from queens to hags, with which he has 
not entered into the closest sympathy, thinking their thoughts 
and speaking their words. By his overpowering intuition, he 
comprehended, in all their extent, the various hopes, fears, de- 
sires, and passions of the human heart; and, as occasion arose, 
he gave them the most perfect utterance they have ever found. 
Every age and country — early England, mediaeval Italy, ancient 
Greece and Rome — were all seized in their essential features. 

There were no thoughts too high for his strong intellect to 
grasp ; and the great world of nature, with its mysteries, its 
abounding beauty, its subtle harmonies, its deep moral teach- 
ings, he irradiated with the light of his genius. If, as a poet 
has said, " we live in thoughts, not years, in feelings, not in fig- 



68 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ures on the dial," how infinitely rich the quarter of a century 
Shakespeare spent in London ! In comparison with his all- 
embracing - experience, the career of an Alexander, or Caesar, or 
Napoleon, with its far extending ambition and manifold in- 
terests, loses its towering greatness; for the English poet lived 
more than they all. 

118. Rare Sanity. — One great ground of Shakespeare's 
preeminence is his sanity. He was singularly free from the 
eccentricity and one-sidedness that so often accompany genius. 
His marvellous power in seeing clearly and judging justly 
will be more clearly understood by comparing him with 
recent schools or tendencies in literature. For nearly a cen- 
tury the literary world has been divided into romanticists and 
realists. The former emphasize the ideal side of life, and in 
extreme types run into extravagance; the latter emphasize what 
is actual in life, often showing preference for the low and im- 
moral. Both tendencies represent truth in part; but in Shake- 
speare we find them held in equal balance. The ideal and the 
real are harmoniously blended in him as in actual life. He 
saw and judged life in its completeness. 

119. Development of his Genius. — It is a mistake to sup- 
pose that Shakespeare owed everything to nature, and that in 
his productions he was guided alone by instinct. This view 
was maintained by his earliest biographer, Rowe, who says: 
" Art had so little, and nature so large a share in what Shake- 
speare did, that for aught I know the performances of his 
youth were the best." 

But Ben Jonson shows a keener discernment : — 

" Yet must I not give Nature all : thy Art, 
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. 
For a good Poet's made, as well as born, 
And such wert thou." 

An examination of his works in their chronological order 
shows that his genius underwent a process of development, and 
was perfected by study, knowledge, and experience. His earli- 
est dramas, such as "Henry VI," "Love's Labor's Lost," 
" Comedy of Errors," and " The Two Gentlemen of Verona," 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 69 

all of which were composed prior to 1591, are lacking in the 
freedom and perfection of his later works. They show the 
influence of the contemporary stage, and declamation often 
takes the place of genuine passion. 

120. Maturity of his Powers. — But after this apprentice 
work, the poet passed into the full possession of his powers, 
and produced, during what may be regarded the middle period 
of his literary career, an uninterrupted succession of master- 
pieces, among which may be mentioned " The Merchant of 
Venice," " A Midsummer Night's Dream," " Romeo and 
Juliet," " As You Like It," " Hamlet," and most of his Eng- 
lish historical plays. All these appeared before 1600. With 
increasing age and experience, the poet passed on to profounder 
themes. It was during this final stage of his development that 
he gave " King Lear," " Macbeth," and " Othello " to the world, 
the two former in 1605 and the latter in 1609. 

121. Hidden Personality. — But in one particular his 
earlier and his later dramas are alike. The personality of the 
poet is concealed in them all. He enters into sympathy with all 
his creations, but he can be identified with none. He is greater 
than any one of them, or than all of them combined; for it is 
in him that they all originated and find their unity. Thus to 
create and project into the world a large number of independent 
beings is an evidence of the highest genius. Byron could not 
do it; for through all his works, whatever may be the names 
of his characters, we recognize the lawless, passionate, mis- 
anthropic poet himself. The same is true of Goethe and Vic- 
tor Hugo, who embody in their works their didactic principles 
or their idealized experience. Among the world's great writ- 
ers, Shakespeare and Homer almost alone are hidden behind 
their works like a mysterious presence. 

122. Mastery of Dramatic Art. — Shakespeare possessed 
a profound knowledge of his art. This is obvious both from 
Hamlet's famous instruction to the players and from the struc- 
ture of his dramas. He has been criticised for discarding 
classic rules ; but the censure is most unjust. Genius has an 
inalienable right to prescribe its own creative forms. He laid 
aside the hampering models of antiquity in order to give the 



70 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

world a new and richer dramatic form. The simple action of 
the ancient drama could not be adjusted to his great and com- 
plex themes. His works possess the one great essential char- 
acteristic — that of organic unity. After Shakespeare had com- 
pleted his apprenticeship, his dramas embody an almost fault- 
less structure ; they are not pieces of elaborate and elegant 
patchwork, but of consistent and regular growth. We can but 
wonder at the range and power of that intellect which grasped 
a multitude of characters, brought them into contact, carried 
them through a great variety of incidents, portrayed with jus- 
tice and splendor the profoundest feelings and thoughts, traced 
their reciprocal influence, and symmetrically conducted the 
whole to a striking and pre-determined conclusion. 

123. Borrowed Materials. — It scarcely detracts from his 
greatness that, instead of inventing his themes and characters, 
he borrowed them from history and literature. His borrowing 
was not slavish and weak. Whatever materials he appropriated 
from others, he reshaped and glorified ; and he is no more to be 
censured than is the sculptor who takes from the stone-cutter 
the rough marble that he afterward transforms into a Venus de' 
Medici or a Greek Slave. His works constitute a world in 
themselves; and with its inhabitants — with Hamlet, Othello, 
Macbeth, Portia, Shylock, and many others — we are as well 
acquainted as with the personages of history. 

124. Types of Character. — The poet exhibits an almost 
perfect acquaintance with human nature. His creations are not 
personified moral qualities or individualized passions, but real 
persons. They are beings of flesh and blood: but by their re- 
lations and reciprocal influence they are lifted above the dull 
and commonplace. Shakespeare removes the veil that hides 
from common vision the awful significance of human influence, 
and reveals it in its subtle workings and mighty results. He 
enables us to see, beneath a placid or rippling surface, the 
deep currents that move society. 

His types of noble men and women — Orlando, Horatio, 
Antonio, Portia, Hermione, Desdemona, and many others — 
are almost matchless. He furnishes us a gallery of exalted 
manhood and womanhood. Their goodness is beautiful in its 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 71 

ease, simplicity, and naturalness. " The good they do, in doing 
it, pays itself; if they do you a kindness, they are not at 
all solicitous to have you know and remember it; if sufferings 
and hardships overtake them, if wounds and bruises be their 
portion, they never grumble or repine at it." And the women, 
to quote Hudson further, " are strong, tender, and sweet, yet 
never without a sufficient infusion of brisk natural acid and 
piquancy to keep their sweetness from palling on the taste ; they 
are full of fresh, healthy sentiment, but never at all touched 
with sentimentality." 

125. Incomparable Style. — * As his mode of expression 
was always suited to his changing characters, he exemplified 
every quality of style in turn. His faculties and taste were 
so exquisitely adjusted, that his manner was always in keeping 
with his matter. He drew with equal facility on the Saxon and 
the Latin elements of our language, and attained with both the 
same incomparable results. He had a prodigious faculty for 
language, surpassing in copiousness every other English writer. 
The only term that adequately describes his manner of writing 
is Shakespearian — a term that comprehends a great deal. It 
includes vividness of imagination, depth of thought, delicacy of 
feeling, carefulness of observation, discernment of hidden rela- 
tions, and whatever else may be necessary to clothe thought in 
expressions of supreme fitness and beauty. 

126. A Storehouse of Riches. — Far above every other 
writer of ancient or modern times Shakespeare voices, in its 
manifold life, the human soul. This fact makes his works a 
storehouse of riches, to which we constantly turn. Are we 
oppressed at times with a morbid feeling of the emptiness of 
life? How perfectly Shakespeare voices our sentiment: — 

" Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more : it is a tale 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. 
Signifying nothing." 



72 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Or again : — 

"We are such stuff 
As dreams are made of, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep." 

If we recognize the fact that somehow there is a mysterious 
power controlling our lives, we are to-ld — 

" There's a divinity that shapes our ends, 
Rough-hew them how we will." 

What beautiful expression he gives to the trite observation 
that contentment is better than riches ! 

"Tis better to be lowly born, 
And range with humble livers in content, 
Than to be perk'd up in glistering grief, 
And wear a golden sorrow." 

What clear expression he gives to the indistinct feeling of 
beauty that sometimes comes to us in the presence of some ob- 
ject in nature ! He surprises its secret, and embodies it in an 
imperishable word : — 

" How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! " 

But why .multiply illustrations, when they are found on 
almost every page of his works? 

127. His Influence. — And what shall be said oT Shake- 
speare's influence? He so entirely eclipsed his contemporary 
dramatists that their works are scarcely read. There are pas- 
sages in his works that we could wish omitted — panderings 
to the corrupt taste of the time. But they are exceptional, and 
at heart the poet's sympathy, as in the case of every truly great 
man, is on the side of virtue. His writings, as a whole, carry 
with them the uplifting power of high thought, noble feeling, 
and worthy deeds. 

Many of his thoughts and characters pass into the intellectual 
life of each succeeding generation. " Hamlet," " The Mer- 
chant of Venice," and " Romeo and Juliet " are read by nearly 
every young student; and to have read any one of Shakespeare's 
masterpieces intelligently marks an epoch in the intellectual life 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 73 

of youth. But his dramas give pleasure not alone to the young. 
With minds enriched by experience and study, we turn, in the 
midst of active life, to his works for recreation and instruction. 
He but appears greater with our enlarged capacity to appre- 
ciate him. If he gathered about him a circle of cultivated 
friends and admirers in his life, he has shown himself still 
stronger in death. The circle has widened until it comprehends 
many lands. 

128. Imperishable Interest. — There is no abatement of 
interest in his works. Societies are organized for their system- 
atic study, and periodicals are devoted to their illustration. 
There is no likelihood that he will ever be superseded; as he 
wrote in the proud presentiment of genius, — 

" Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme." 

Future ages will turn to his works as a mirror of nature, 
and find in them the most perfect expression of their deepest 
and most precious experience. It is safe to say that his pro- 
ductions are as imperishable as the English language or the 
English race. 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Hudson's or Rolfe's " Shakespeare," Dowden, " Shakespeare, 
His Mind and Art," Hudson, " His Life, Art, and Characters " 
(2 vols.), Mrs. Jameson, "Characteristics of Women," Lewes, 
"Women of Shakespeare" (translated from the German), Mabie, 
" Life of Shakespeare," Lee, " Life of William Shakespeare," Cor- 
son, " Introduction to the Study of Shakespeare," Lowell, " My 
Study Windows," Moulton, " Shakespeare, the Man and His Works " 
(Sibley & Co.) 

The structure of the drama, Freytag, " Technique of the Drama," 
Ch. 2. How to study a drama, Painter, " Elementary Guide to 
Literary Criticism," pp. 148-155 (particularly questions in note, 
p. 154). The times of Shakespeare, Green, "History of the Eng- 
lish People," vol. II., Lewes, " The Women of Shakespeare," Ch 1, 



74 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Jenks, " In the Days of Shakespeare." The moral spirit of Shake- 
speare, Hudson, " Shakespeare, His Life, Art, and Characters," 
vol. I., pp. 238-258. An estimate of the " Merchant of Venice," 
Hudson, vol. I., pp. 277-279, Moulton, " Shakespeare, the Man and 
his Works," pp. 105-112. The story of the play, Hudson, vol. I., 
p. 279, Lewes, " Women of Shakespeare," pp. 181-201, Lamb, " Tales 
from Shakespeare." Character Studies of Antonio, Shylock, and 
Portia, Hudson (vol. I.), Lewes. The episode of Lorenzo and 
Jessica. 

"The Merchant of Venice" is given among the selections of 
Part II. " Julius Caesar," " As You Like It," " Hamlet " and " Mac- 
beth " are recommended for similar study. 



CIVIL WAR OR PURITAN PERIOD. 75 



PRINCIPAL WRITERS. 

Prose. — Jeremy Taylor (1613-1667). Theologian and preacher. 
Author of "Liberty of Prophesying" (1647), "Holy Living and 
Dying" (1651), etc. 

Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon (1 608-1674). Statesman and 
author of ''The History of the Rebellion" (1702). 

Richard Baxter (1615-1691). Theologian and preacher. Author 
of "The Saints' Everlasting Rest" (1649), "A Call to the Uncon- 
verted" (1657), "The Reformed Pastor," and a hundred and fifty 
other works. 

Izaak Walton (1593-1683). Author of "The Complete Angler," 
and several excellent biographies, including that of Hooker. (See 
Text.) 

Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682). Author of " Religio Medici" 
(1643), "Vulgar Errors" (1646), and "Urn Burial" (1658). 

Poetry. — Edmund Waller (1605-1687). One of the principal 
metaphysical or artificial poets. (See Text.) 

Abraham Cowley (161S-1667). The most popular poet of his 
time. Author of " The Mistress," a collection of love verses, 
" Davideis," an epic on David, "The Late Civil War," etc. (See 
Text.) 

Francis Quarles (1592-1644). Author of "Divine Emblems" 
(1635), moral and religious poems, very popular in his day. "Mil- 
ton was forced to wait," said Walpole, " till the world had done 
admiring Quarles." 

George Herbert (1593-1632). .Anglican clergyman, who wrote 
"The Temple" (1633), a collection of ecclesiastical poems, some 
of which are still held in favor. 

Robert Herrick (1 591-1674). Anglican clergyman, who wrote 
Anacreontic poems hardly in keeping with his profession. 

GREAT REPRESENTATIVE WRITER. 
John Milton. 



IV. 

CIVIL WAR OR PURITAN PERIOD. 

(1625 — 1660.) 

129. An Important Period. — Though short, this period 
is worthy of careful study. In a brief space of time, the domi- 
nant spirit of England was completely changed. The Puritan 
element gained the ascendency and stamped its character on the 
representative literature of the time. The religious element of 
life came into greater prominence ; thought was turned from 
this world to the world to come, and in place of the common 
interests of humanity literature was largely occupied with re- 
ligious truth. This difference, as compared with the preced- 
ing era, is clearly reflected in the great representative writers. 
Spenser, Bacon, and Shakespeare reflect large and secular 
phases of the spacious times of Elizabeth ; Milton and Bunyan, 
in their greatest works, set forth the theological beliefs and 
religious experience of Christendom. 

130. Civil and Religious Conflict, — This period is char- 
acterized by a great civil and religious conflict. The antagon- 
istic elements that had long existed in England were brought 
into armed conflict for supremacy. It was a time of unrest, 
controversy, persecution, and civil war — a condition of things 
highly unfavorable to literature. But for two great writers, 
who with vast genius voiced the deeper truths and aspirations 
of Puritan England, it would be regarded as a period of literary 
decadence, not unlike that following the age of Chaucer. As 
it is, the largeness, variety, and freedom of the First Creative 
Period are obviously lacking. 

131. Charles I. — Charles I. ascended the throne in 1625 
and moulded his policy according to high notions of the divine 
right of kings. He sought to establish an absolute monarchy. 

77 



78 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

He assumed a haughty tone in addressing the Commons, telling 
them to " remember that parliaments were altogether in his 
power for their calling, sitting, or dissolution, and that, there- 
fore, as he should find the fruits of them good or evil, they 
were to be, or not to be." 

Two Parliaments were convened in rapid succession, but 
showed themselves unyielding to the royal will. When the 
king demanded supplies, the Commons clamored for redress of 
grievances. In each case the king dissolved Parliament and 
proceeded to levy taxes in defiance of law. Resistance to the 
royal demands led to immediate imprisonment; and in order to 
exercise his tyranny the better, he billeted soldiers among the 
people, and in some places established martial law. 

132. Arbitrary Rule. — - A third Parliament was called in 
1629. Finding it still more determined in resisting his arbitrary 
and tyrannical rule, the king resolved upon a change of tactics. 
After many attempted evasions, he was at last brought to ratify 
the Petition of Right, the second great charter of English lib- 
erty, which bound him not to levy taxes without the consent of 
Parliament, not to imprison any person except by due process, 
and not to govern by martial law. 

The rejoicing of the Commons over this victory was of short 
duration. The king was by nature insincere and false, and, on 
principle, did not feel himself bound to keep faith with the 
people. After collecting the supplies that had been granted 
him, he violated the solemn pledge of the Petition of Right, and 
dissolved Parliament with every mark of royal displeasure. 
For the following eleven years no Parliament was called to- 
gether, and the king ruled as a despot. 

133. The Royalist Party. — Throughout the whole course 
of his usurpation the king was surrounded by bad advisers. 
Among them was the Duke of Buckingham, whom the Com- 
mons considered " the grievance of grievances ; " Laud, Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury, who hated the Puritans more than he 
hated the Catholics; and Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, 
who had been won from the side of Parliament by bribes and 
honors, and to whom Mr. Pym suggestively remarked, "'You 
have left us, but we will never leave you while your head is 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. yg 

upon your shoulders." In natural sympathy with the king were 
the nobility of the realm and the prelates of the Established 
Church. With the supremacy of the crown, the position of 
the nobility would be guaranteed against republican tendencies. 
Since Charles I. was a zealous Episcopalian, the bishops had 
everything to gain from his absolutism. They warmly defended 
the divine right of kings. Here, then, we find two influential 
classes which were bound to the king by common sympathies 
and common interests. They were called Royalists. 

134. The Puritan Party.— The opposition, as we have 
seen, centred in the House of Commons, who represented the 
great middle class of England. They stood for constitutional 
government. For the most part they were Independents in 
religion and looked upon the usages and episcopal organization 
of the Anglican Church as savoring of Romanism. They made 
the individual congregation the source of authority, and, re- 
jecting all human traditions, appealed to the Scriptures alone as 
the standard of faith and practice. Their form of worship was 
simple. 

In emancipating men from the arbitrary rule of an external 
authority, their principles were favorable to human dignity and 
freedom. Though persecuted to a greater or less degree during 
the reigns of Elizabeth and James I., the Independents had in- 
creased. Their trials had made them an earnest and determined 
body. In contrast with what they regarded the formalism and 
worldliness of the Established Church, many of them had gone 
to the opposite extreme of ascetic rigor. They denounced every 
kind of amusement, excluded music and art from the churches, 
acquired a stern solemnity of countenance, and affected a 
Scriptural style of speech. 

135. Defenders of Liberty.— To escape the annoyances 
and persecutions to which they were exposed in England, thou- 
sands had voluntarily exiled themselves in Holland, or braved 
the trials and dangers of the New World. It will be readily 
understood that men of this character — men of deep convic- 
tion, of high conceptions of individual liberty, and of fearless 
courage — could not be friendly to royal despotism. When 
placed in power in the House of Commons, they were stubborn 



80 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

and unyielding in their defence of constitutional liberty. They 
could not be deceived by promises nor terrified by threats. 
Thus constitutional government in the Commons was arrayed 
against despotism in the king. 

136. Civil War. — At last the resources of peace were ex- 
hausted, and in 1642 an appeal was made to arms. It is not 
necessary to follow the course of the Civil War. The gay 
Cavaliers about the king were no match for the serious Puritans. 
" I raised such men as had the fear of God before them," said 
Cromwell, " and made some conscience of what they did, and 
from that day forward, I must say to you, they were never 
beaten, and whenever they engaged against the enemy, they 
beat continually." 

137. The Great Protector. — In 1649 Charles I. was 
brought to the block. England became a commonwealth, and 
with Cromwell as Lord Protector occupied a commanding po- 
sition among European nations. The Protector was every- 
where feared. He subjugated Ireland; from Spain he de- 
manded the right of free trade with the West Indies; he sup- 
pressed the Barbary pirates on the Mediterranean; he forced 
the pope and Catholic rulers to cease their persecutions of 
Protestants. In treating with foreign sovereigns, he insisted 
on receiving the formal honors paid to the proudest monarchs 
of Europe. He returned two letters to Louis XIV. of France 
because they were not, as he thought, properly addressed. 
" What," exclaimed the French king to Cardinal Mazarin, 
"must I call this base fellow 'Our dear Brother Oliver?'" 
" Aye," replied the crafty minister, " or your father, if it will 
gain your ends ; or you will have him at the gates of Paris ! " 

138. Puritanism and Literature. — However conducive to 
the political grandeur of England, the triumph of Puritanism 
was not favorable to the cause of letters. In the austere at- 
mosphere of Puritanic piety there is little encouragement for 
art and literature. 

The aesthetic sentiment is suppressed by ascetic views of life. 
The literary impulse finds expression only in devotional man- 
uals, unadorned history, or severely logical theology. " The 
idea of the beautiful is wanting," says Taine, " and what is 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 81 

literature without it? The natural expression of the heart's 
emotions is proscribed, and what is a literature without it? 
They abolished as impious the free stage and the rich poesy 
which the Renaissance had brought them. They rejected as 
profane the ornate style and the ample eloquence which had 
been established around them by the imitation of antiquity and 
of Italy." 

139. Decline of the Drama. — The decline of the drama 
became inevitable. Puritanism set itself not only against the 
theatre, but also against every other form of worldly amuse- 
ment. " The very pastimes of the world," says Green, " had 
to conform themselves to the law of God. There were no more 
races, no more bull-baitings, no more cock-fighting, no more 
dances under the Maypole. Christmas had to pass without its 
junketings, or mummers, or mince-pies." Prynne, a distin- 
guished Puritan lawyer, denounced players as the ministers of 
Satan, and theatres as the Devil's chapels. In the presence of 
this hostile spirit, the splendid Elizabethan drama languished 
and died. 

140. John Bunyan. — In scholarly culture never was a 
writer less fitted for authorship than Bunyan. He sprang from 
a very humble origin; his school training was exceedingly ele- 
mentary; his associates were uneducated people; his reading 
was almost exclusively confined to three or four religious books. 
Yet, in spite of this meagre outfit in literary culture, he wrote 
a book that has become a classic. It is the greatest allegory 
ever written, and in graphic power of portraiture it is scarcely 
inferior to the creations of Shakespeare. What is the secret 
of this achievement? It is to be found, first, in the divine gift 
of genius, and, second, in the extraordinary depth of his varied 
religious experience. He wrote directly from the fulness of 
knowledge which he had gained through years of spiritual 
conflict. 

141. " The Pilgrim's Progress." — " The Pilgrim's Prog- 
ress," his greatest work, describes a journey from the City of 
Destruction to the New Jerusalem; in other words, it sets 
forth the sorrows, joys, and final triumph of a Christian life. 
It is Bunyan's own experience in allegory. His faith and 



82 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

experience were back of it ; and it stands, as Carlyle has re- 
marked, the shadow of what, to its author, was an awful fact. 
Its descriptions are remarkably vivid ; its characters are sharply 
defined ; and what gives it perennial interest is its fidelity to 
life. Every earnest nature, no matter what may be the creed, 
there finds, more or less fully, its own experience. Who has 
not crossed the Slough of Despond? Who has not felt the 
burden of unworthiness, climbed the hill of Difficulty, and 
been shut up in Doubting Castle? Who has not also rested 
in the Delectable Mountains, or reached for moments, all too 
brief, the Land of Beulah ? 

142. Isaac Walton. — One of the most pleasing literary 
figures of this period is Izaak Walton. After accumulating a 
small fortune as a linen-draper, he retired from business in 1543, 
and became, as has been said, pontifex piscatoriun. For forty 
years he swayed his fishing-rod as a sceptre over a circle of 
congenial and admiring friends. His " Complete Angler, or the 
Contemplative Man's Recreation," published in 1653, 1S a de- 
lightful book, which has passed through many editions both 
in England and this country. 

143. Fantastic Poets. — With the exception of Milton, this 
period produced no great poet. The large, creative spirit of the 
preceding era, which reflected the grandeur and power of the 
English people, was succeeded by a narrow, artificial spirit, 
which devoted its energies to the turning of small compliments 
and the tracing of remote resemblances. Since the time of Dr. 
Johnson, it has been customary to designate these writers,, 
among whom we may mention Waller, Cowley, Quarles, Her- 
rick, Suckling, and Carew, as metaphysical poets. 

The term artificial or fantastic would perhaps be more ac- 
curately descriptive of their character. They were men of learn- 
ing, but took too much pains to show it. They wrote not from 
the emotions of the heart, but from the deliberate choice of the 
will ; and hence they succeeded not in giving voice to nature, but 
only in pleasing a false and artificial taste. They abound in 
far-fetched and violent figures ; and though we may be surprised 
at their ingenuity in discovering remote resemblances, we smile 
at the incongruous result. Thus Carew sings : — 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 83 

" Ask me no more, whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day ; 
For in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

" Ask me no more, whither doth haste 
The nightingale, when May is past; 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

u Ask me no more, where those stars light, 
That downwards fall in dead of night, 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become, as in their sphere." 

144. Happy Trifles. — Yet a happy trifle was now and 
then hit upon. At rare intervals nature seems to have broken 
through the casing of artificiality. Francis Quarles gives for- 
cible poetic expansion to Job's prayer, " Oh that thou wouldest 
hide me in the grave, that thou wouldest keep me secret, until 
thy wrath be past : " — 

"Ah, whither shall I fly? What path untrod 
Shall I seek out to escape the flaming rod 
Of my offended, of my angry God? " 

There is a light, careless spontaneity about the little song 
of Herrick's beginning : — 

" Gather the rose-buds while ye may, 
Old Time is still a flying; 
And this same flower that smiles to-day 
To-morrow will be dying." 

145. Waller and Cowley.-— The two leading representa- ' 
tives of the metaphysical or artificial school were Edmund 
Waller and Abraham Cowley. The former was an orator as 
well as poet, and served many times in Parliament, He de- 
lighted the House with his unfailing wit; but if Bishop Burnet 
is right, " He was only concerned to say that which should 



84 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

make him applauded; he never laid the business of the House 
to heart, being a vain and empty, though a witty, man." 

Though he wrote serious poems, especially in his old age, 
he was happiest in the lighter vein. He did not think deeply 
on great subjects, but expended his efforts in maintaining a 
superficial elegance. Among his songs there is one sweeter 
than all the rest, beginning : — 

" Go, lovely rose ! 
Tell her that wastes her time and me, 

That now she knows 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be." 

Contemporary criticism is not always just. During the life- 
time of the two poets the fame of Cowley entirely eclipsed 
that of Milton. Posterity has reversed this estimate; and we 
may now ask with Pope : — 

"Who now reads Cowley? If he pleases yet, 
His moral pleases, not his pointed wit; 
Forgot his epic, nay, Pindaric art." 

But the neglect into which he has fallen seems not wholly 
deserved. He was the most popular poet of his day; and this 
popularity may be taken as indicative of at least some degree of 
merit. While speaking of the general neglect of Cowley's 
works, Pope adds : — 

"But still I love the language of his heart." 




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CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 85 



JOHN MILTON. 

146. Solitary Grandeur. — In the period under considera- 
tion, Milton stands out in almost solitary grandeur. Intimately 
associated with the political and religious movements of his 
time, and identified in principle and in life with the Puritan 
party, he still rises grandly above the narrowness of his age. 
In one work at least he rivals the great achievements of the 
age of Elizabeth. He deserves to be recognized as the sub- 
limest poet of all times. 

147. Early Years. — John Milton was born in London, Dec. 
9, 1608. His father, a man of the highest integrity, had been 
disinherited for espousing the Protestant cause; but, taking 
up the profession of a scrivener, he acquired the means of giving 
his son a liberal education. His mother, a woman of most 
virtuous character, was especially distinguished for her neigh- 
borhood charities. The private tutor of Milton was Thomas 
Young, a Puritan minister, who was afterward forced to leave 
the kingdom on account of his religious opinions. Milton 
showed extraordinary aptness in learning; and when in 1624 
he was sent to Cambridge, he was master of several languages 
and had read extensively in philosophy and literature. He re- 
mained at the university seven years and took the usual de- 
grees. 

148. Five Years of Study. — In 1632 he left the university, 
amidst the regrets of the fellows of his college, and retired to 
his father's house at Horton in Buckinghamshire. Here he 
spent five years in laborious study, in the course of which he 
perused all the Greek and Latin writers of the classic period. 
He also studied Italian and was accustomed, as he tells us, " to 
feast with avidity and delight on Dante and Petrarch." To 
use his own expression, he was letting his wings grow. In a 
letter to a friend he gives us some interesting particulars in 
regard to his studies and habits of life. " You well know," 



86 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

he says, " that I am naturally slow in writing and averse to 
write. It is also in my favor that your method of study is such 
as to admit of frequent interruptions, in which you visit your 
friends, write letters, or go abroad ; but it is my way to suffer 
no impediment, no love of ease, no avocation whatever, to chill 
the ardor, to break the continuity, or divert the completion of my 
literary pursuits." 

149. Famous Poems. — It- was during this period of studi- 
ous retirement that he produced several of his choicest poems, 
among which are " Comus," " L' Allegro," and " II Penseroso." 
" Comus " is the most perfect mask in any language. But " in 
none of the works of Milton," says Macaulay, " is his peculiar 
manner more happily displayed than in ' Allegro ' and the 
' Penseroso.' It is impossible to conceive that the mechanism 
of language can be brought to a more exquisite degree of per- 
fection. Those poems differ from others as attar of roses 
differs from ordinary rose water, the close-packed essence 
from the thin diluted mixture. They are indeed not so much 
poems as collections of hints, from each of which the reader 
is to make a poem for himself. Every epithet is a text for a 
stanza." 

150. The High-Water Mark. — At the time these two 
poems were written, they stood as the high-water mark of Eng- 
lish poetry. In their sphere they have never been excelled. In 
spite of little inaccuracies of description (for Milton was too 
much in love with books to be a close observer of nature), we 
find nowhere else such an exquisite delineation of country life 
and country scenes. These idyls are the more remarkable be- 
cause their light, joyous spirit stands in strong contrast with 
the elevation, dignity, and austerity of his other poems. 

Take, for example, this picture from a description of morn- 
ing scenes : — 

" While the cock, with lively din, 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin ; 
And to the stack, or the barn door, 
Stoutly struts his dames before." 

Or this picture from a description of evening: — 



JOHN MILTON. 87 

" Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
I hear the far-off curfew sound 
Over some wide-watered shore, 
Swinging slow with sullen roar." 

151. " Lycidas." — " Lycidas," published in 1637, is a pas- 
toral elegy, commemorating the death of Edward King, a 
young college friend, who was drowned in the Irish Sea. It 
is one of the noblest elegies in our language, full of subdued, 
classic beauty. It contains a celebrated passage denouncing 
the mercenary character of the Anglican prelates. The pass- 
ing of Lycidas from death to celestial life is likened to the 
course of the sun : — 

" So sinks the day star in the ocean-bed, 

And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 

And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky." 

152. Tour on the Continent.— At length Milton began to 
tire of his country life and to long for the pleasures and bene- 
fits of travel. In 1638 he left England for a tour on the Con- 
tinent. At Paris he met Grotius, one of the most learned men 
of his age, who resided at the French capital as ambassador 
from the Queen of Sweden. After a few days he went to Italy 
and visited all the principal cities. He was everywhere cor- 
dially received by men of learning, who were not slow to recog- 
nize his genius. In his travels he preserved an admirable and 
courageous independence. Even under the shadow of St. 
Peter's, he made no effort to conceal his religious opinions. " It 
was a rule," he says, " which I laid down to myself in those 
places, never to be the first to begin any conversation on re- 
ligion ; but if any question were put to me concerning my faith, 
to declare it without any reserve or fear. . . . For about 
the space of two months I again openly defended, as I had done 
before, the reformed religion in the very metropolis of Popery." 

153. Premonitions of Greatness. — The Italians, who 
were frugal in their praise of men from beyond the Alps, re- 
ceived some of Milton's productions with marks of high appre- 



8S ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ciation. This had the effect to confirm his opinion of his own 
power and to stimulate his hope of achieving something worthy 
of remembrance. " I began thus to assent both to them, and 
divers of my friends at home," he tells us in an interesting 
passage, " and not less to an inward prompting, which now 
grew daily upon me, that, by labor and intense study (which I 
take to be my portion in this life), I might perhaps leave 
something so written to after-times as they should not willingly 
let die." He was about to extend his travels into Sicily and 
Greece when the news of the civil commotions in England caused 
him to change his purpose ; " for I thought it base," he says, 
" to be travelling for amusement abroad, while my fellow-citi- 
zens were fighting for liberty at home." 

154. A Private School. — Not being called to serve the 
state in any official capacity on his arrival in London, he 
rented a spacious house in which he conducted a private school. 
He sought to exemplify, in some measure at least, his educa- 
tional theories. He held that languages should be studied for 
the sake of the literary treasures they contain. He accordingly 
laid but little stress on minute verbal drill and sought to ac- 
quaint his pupils with what was best in classic literature. A 
long list of Latin and Greek authors was read. Besides, he 
attached much importance to religious instruction ; and on 
Sunday he dictated to his pupils an outline of Protestant theol- 
ogy. 

But this school has called forth some unfavorable criticism 
upon its founder. Dr. Johnson, who delights in severe reflec- 
tions, calls attention to the contrast between the lofty sentiment 
and small performance of the poet, who, " when he reaches the 
scene of action, vapors away his patriotism in a private board- 
ing-school." The animadversion is unjust. Though modestly 
laboring as a teacher, Milton's talents and learning were sin- 
cerely devoted to the service of his country. He has himself 
given us what ought to be a satisfactory explanation. " Avoid- 
ing the labors of the camp," he says, " in which any robust 
soldier would have surpassed me, I betook myself to those 
weapons which I could wield with most effect ; and I conceived 
that I was acting wisely when I thus brought my better and 



JOHN MILTON. 89 

more valuable faculties, those which constituted my principal 
strength and consequence, to the assistance of my country and 
her honorable cause." 

155. Ecclesiastical Controversy. — In 1641 he published 
his first work in prose, " Of Reformation in England, and the 
Causes that hitherto Have Hindered it." It is an attack upon 
the bishops and the Established Church. The same year ap- 
peared two other controversial works, " Of Prelatical Episco- 
pacy," which he maintains is without warrant from apostolic 
times, and " The Reason of Church Government," which is 
an argument against prelacy. With these works Milton threw 
himself into the bitter controversies of the age. It was a 
matter, not of choice, but of duty. He felt called to add the 
weight of his learning and eloquence to the side of the Puritans, 
who were perhaps inferior to their prelatical opponents in 
scholarship. He tells us himself that he " was not disposed to 
this manner of writing, wherein knowing myself inferior to 
myself, led by the genial power of nature to another task, I 
have the use, as I may account it, but of my left hand." 

156. Marriage. — In 1643, m his thirty-fifth year, Milton 
married Mary Powell, daughter of a justice of the peace in 
Oxfordshire. She was of Royalist family and had been brought 
up in the leisure and gayety of affluence. It is not strange, 
therefore, that she found the meagre fare and studious habits 
of her husband's home distasteful. After a month in this 
scholastic abode, she made a visit to her father's home, from 
which she refused to return. Her husband's letters were left 
unanswered, and his messenger was dismissed with contempt. 
Milton felt this breach of duty on her part keenly, and resolved 
to repudiate his wife on the ground of disobedience and de- 
sertion. 

157. Reconciliation. — At last a reconciliation between 
him and his wife was effected. When one day she suddenly 
appeared before him, and on her knees begged his forgiveness, 
his generous impulses were deeply moved. He received her 
into his home again, and ever afterward treated her with affec- 
tion; and when her family, because of their Royalist sympa- 
thies, fell into distress, he generously extended his protection 



90 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

to her father and brothers. The incidents of this reconciliation 
are supposed to have given rise to a beautiful passage in " Para- 
dise Lost/" where Eve is described as humbly falling in tears 
and disordered tresses at the feet of Adam, and suing for 
pardon and peace. And then — 

"She ended, weeping; and her lowly plight, 
Immovable till peace obtain'd from fault 
Acknowledged and deplored, in Adam wrought 
Commiseration ; soon his heart relented 
Towards her, his life so late, and sole delight, 
Now at his feet submissive in distress; 
Creature so fair his reconcilement seeking, 
His counsel, whom she had displeased, his aid." 

158. "Tractate on Education."— This same year, 1644, 
saw the publication of two treatises that will long survive. 
The one is the " Areopagitica, or Speech for the Liberty of Un- 
licensed Printing," the other is his " Tractate on Education." 
In the latter he has set forth in brief compass his educational 
views and made many suggestions for the improvement of the 
current system. It has been pronounced Utopian in character, 
but it is to be noted that many educational reforms of recent 
years have been in the line indicated by Milton. 

His definition of education, which has been often quoted, 
presents a beautiful ideal. " I call a complete and generous 
education," he says, " that which fits a man to perform justly, 
skilfully, and magnanimously all the offices, both private and 
public, of peace and war." But he does not contemplate prac- 
tical efficiency in the secular duties of life as the sole end of 
education. Its highest aim is character. " The end of learn- 
ing is," he says, " to repair the ruins of our first parents by 
regaining to know God aright, and out of that knowledge to 
love him, to imitate him, to be like him, as we may the nearest 
by possessing our souls of true virtue, which being united to 
the heavenly grace of faith makes up the highest perfection." 

159. A Turning-point. — Milton continued to live in pri- 
vate, giving his life to instructing his pupils and to discussing 
questions relating to the public weal. In 1649, two weeks after 



JOHN MILTON. gi 

the execution of Charles I., he published his " Tenure of Kings 
and Magistrates," in which he undertook to prove that it is 
lawful, and has been held so in all ages, for any who have the 
power, to call to account a tyrant or wicked king, and, after 
due conviction, to depose and put him to death. This treatise 
marked a turning-point in his career. The Council of State 
of the new commonwealth, pleased with his courage and repub- 
licanism, called him to the secretaryship for foreign tongues. 
It became his duty to prepare the Latin letters which were ad- 
dressed by the Council to foreign princes. Later he served as 
Cromwell's Latin Secretary — an office he held throughout the 
Protectorate. 

160. Political Controversy. — His literary and contro- 
versial activity, however, did not cease in his official life. His 
" Eikonoklastes," or Imagebreaker, was written in 1649, to 
counteract the influence of " Eikon Basilike," or Royal Image, 
a book that had an immense circulation and tended to create a 
reaction in public sentiment in favor of the monarchy. A still 
more important work was his Latin " Pro Populo Anglicano 
Defensio," which was written in reply to a treatise by Salma- 
sius, a scholar of Leyden, in which an effort was made to vin- 
dicate the memory of Charles I. and to bring reproach upon 
the commonwealth. In spite of failing vision and the warning 
of his physicians, Milton threw himself with great ardor into 
his task, and in 165 1 published his " Defensio," one of the most 
masterly controversial works ever written. He practically anni- 
hilated his opponent. The commonwealth, it was said, owed its 
standing in Europe to Cromwell's battles and Milton's books. 

161. Blindness. — During the Protectorate Milton's life 
was uneventful. He bore his blindness, which had now become 
total, with heroic fortitude, upheld by a beautiful faith, to 
which he gave expression in a sonnet " On his Blindness " : — 

" God doth not need 
Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state 
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 



92 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

162. Solitude and Dejection. — At the Restoration, though 
specially named for punishment, he somehow escaped the scaf- 
fold. His life, however, was for some years one of solitude 
and dejection. His own feelings are put into the mouth of his 
Samson : — 

" Now blind, disheartened, shamed, dishonored, quelled, 
To what can I be useful ? Wherein serve 
My nation, and the work -from heaven imposed? 
But to sit idle on the household hearth, 
A burdensome drone, to visitants a gaze, 
Or pitied object." 

To add to his distress, his three daughters, whose rearing 
had been somewhat neglected, failed to prove a comfort to 
their father in his sore afflictions. They treated him with disre- 
spect, sold his books by stealth, and rebelled against the drudg- 
ery of reading to him. Under these circumstances it is hardly 
to be wondered at that he allowed himself to be persuaded (his 
second wife having died eight years before) into contracting a 
third marriage — a union that greatly added to the comfort 
and happiness of his last years. 

163. " Paradise Lost." — But in all this period of trial, 
Milton had the solace of a noble task. He was slowly elabor- 
ating his " Paradise Lost," in which he realized the dream of 
his youth. Its main theme is indicated in the opening lines : — 

" Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
Brought death into the world, and all our woe, 
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man 
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, 
Sing, heavenly Muse, that on the secret top 
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire 
That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed, 
In the beginning, how the heavens and earth 
Rose out of chaos." 

But the poem must be read before its grandeur can be appre- 
ciated. It is one of the world's great epics; and in majesty of 



JOHN MILTON. 93 

plan and sublimity of treatment it surpasses them all. The 
Eternal Spirit, which he invokes, seems to have touched his 
lips with hallowed fire. The splendors of heaven, the horrors 
of hell, and the beauties of Paradise are depicted with match- 
less power. The beings of the unseen world — angels and 
demons — exercise before us their mighty agency ; and in the 
council chambers of heaven we hear the words of the Almighty. 
The poem comprehends the universe, sets forth the truth of 
divine government, and exhibits life in its eternal significance 
■ — a poem that rises above the petty incidents of earth with 
monumental splendor. It met with appreciation from the start. 
With a clear recognition of its worth, Dryden said, " This man 
cuts us all out, and the ancients too." Milton's modest house 
became a pilgrim's shrine, and men from every rank, not only 
from his native land, but also from abroad, came to pay him 
homage. < 

164. Other Poems. — Milton's literary activity continued 
to the last, and enriched our literature with two other noble 
productions, " Paradise Regained " and " Samson Agonistes." 
The former may be regarded as a sequel to " Paradise Lost" ; 
the latter is the most powerful drama in our language after the 
Greek model. The poet, unconsciously perhaps, identified him- 
self with his Samson, and gave utterance to the profoundest 
emotions which had been awakened by the mighty conflicts and 
sorrows of his own life. 

165. Character. — He died Nov. 8, 1674. He was a man 
of heroic mould. In his solitary grandeur only one man of his 
age deserves to be placed beside him — the great Protector, 
Oliver Cromwell. His greatness was austere. In his life he 
had no intimate and tender companionships ; and now our feel- 
ing toward him is admiration rather than love. His character 
was without blemish, his aspirations pure and lofty, his cour- 
age undaunted, his intellectual vigor and power almost without 
parallel. But he was conscious of his greatness, and, finding 
ample resources within himself, he did not seek human sym- 
pathy. Wordsworth has spoken truly, — 

" Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart." 



94 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Like his own " Paradise Lost," he appears, with his Titanic 
proportions and independent loneliness, as the most impressive 
figure in English literature. 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

The character of the Puritans, Macaulay, " Essay on Milton " 
and " History of England," vol. I., pp. 82-84, 153-158, Green, " His- 
tory of the English People," vol. III., Ch. 1. The work of Crom- 
well in the Civil War, Green, " History of the English People," 
vol. III., Ch. 9. 

John Bunyan. — Froude, "Life of Bunyan," (English Men 
of Letters), Venable, "Life of Bunyan" (Great Writer Series), 
Macaulay, " Essay on Bunyan," Painter, " History of English Liter- 
ature." His life in the Bedford jail, Froude and Venable (as 
above). The story of Doubting Castle in the " Pilgrim's Progress." 
A description of the land of Beulah. 

Fantastic Poets. — A study of Herrick's poems, Ward, 
" The English Poets," vol. II., Palgrave, " Golden Treasury," in 
connection with Painter's " Guide to Literary Criticism," Chs. 2, 7, 
and 8. A study of Cowley, Ward, " The English Poets," vol. II. 
A study of Waller, Ward, "The English Poets," vol. II. 

Milton. — Masson, " Life and Times of Milton," Pattison, 
"Life of Milton" (English Men of Letters), Garnett, "Life of 
Milton (Great Writer Series), Matthew Arnold, "Mixed Essays," 
Macaulay, "Essay on Milton," Lowell, "Among My Books," vol. 
II., Emerson, North American Review, 47:56. Milton's views on 
education, " Tractate on Education " and Painter's " History of Ed- 
ucation," pp. 207-213. His arguments for the liberty of the press, 
" Areopagitica." A review of Lycidas, following suggestions in 
Painter's " Guide to Literary Criticism," Chs. 2, 7, and 8. The 
Character of Satan as portrayed in the first book of " Paradise 
Lost." An outline of " Samson Agonistes." Milton's character as 
reflected in his sonnets. 

" L' Allegro" and "II Penseroso " are given among the selections 
of Part II. 



FIRST CRITICAL PERIOD. 95 



PRINCIPAL WRITERS. 

Diarists. — John Evelyn (1620-1706). Miscellaneous writer, 
but chiefly remembered for his "Diary." (See Text.) 

Samuel Pepys (1633-1703). His "Diary" covers the period 
1 660-1669, first published in 1825. (See Text.) 

Philosophers. — Sir Isaac Newton (1642-1727). Author of sev- 
eral works, the chief of which is " Principia Philosophise Naturalis 
Mathematica" (1687). 

Robert Boyle (1627-1691). A distinguished member of the Royal 
Society; "the most faithful, the most patient, the most successful 
disciple who carried forward the experimental philosophy of Bacon." 

John Locke (1632-1704). Author of two "Treatises on Govern- 
ment" (1690), "Thoughts Concerning Education" (1693), "Essay 
on the Human Understanding" (1690), etc. (See Text.) 

Thomas Hobbes ('1588-1679). Author of "Human Nature" 
(1650), "Leviathan" (1651), "The Behemoth" (1678). 

Theologians. — Joseph Butler (1692-1752). Bishop of Durham, 
and author of " The Analogy of Religion to the Constitution and 
Course of Nature" (1736). 

Gilbert Burnet (1643-1715). Bishop of Salisbury, and author of 
the "History of the Reformation" (1681), "Life of Sir Matthew 
Hale" (1682), etc. 

Ralph Cudworth (1617-1688). Author of "True Intellectual 
System of the Universe" (1678). 

John Tillotson (1630-1694). Archbishop of Canterbury, author 
of "The Rule of Faith" (1666), and "Sermons." 

Jeremy Collier (1650-1726). Nonconformist clergyman, and au- 
thor of various works, of which the best known is " A Short View 
of the Profaneness and Immorality of the Stage" (1698). His 
vigorous attacks led to a purification of the theatre. 

Novelists. — Daniel Defoe (1663-1731). Voluminous author, 
best known for his "Robinson Crusoe" (1719), "Moll Flanders" 
(1721), "Journal of the Plague" (1722), etc. (See Text.) 

Samuel Richardson (1689-1761). First novelist of love, author 



96 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of "Pamela" (1740), "Clarissa Harlowe " (1749), and "Sir 
Charles Grandison " (1754), written to exhibit an ideal hero. (See 
Text.) 

Henry Fielding (1707-1754). Author of "Joseph Andrews" 
(1742), "Jonathan Wild" (1743), "Tom Jones" (1749), "Amelia" 
(1751), etc. (See Text.) 

Dramatists. — William Wycherly (1640-1715). Best drama, 
"The Country Wife" (1675). 

William Congreve (1670-1729). Principal piece, "Love for 
Love" (1695). 

George Farquhar (1678-1707). Most popular work, "The 
Beaux's Stratagem" (1707). 

Miscellaneous Prose. — Sir William Temple (1628-1699). 
Statesman, and author of "Ancient and Modern Learning" (1692). 

Sir Richard Steele (1671-1729). Author of "The Christian 
Hero" (1701), several comedies, "The Funeral, or Grief a la 
Mode" (1702), "The Tender Husband" (1703), founder' of the 
Tatler, and distinguished essayist. 

Jonathan Swift (1667-1745). A writer of great originality and 
power. Author of " A Tale of a Tub," "Journal to Stella," " Gulli- 
ver's Travels," etc. (See Text.) 

Poets. — Samuel Butler (1612-1680). Author of " Hudibras ' 
(1662-1678), a mock-heroic poem ridiculing the Puritans. (See 
Text.) 

James Thomson (1700-1748). Author of "The Seasons" (1726- 
1730), several dramas, and "The Castle of Indolence" (1748), a 
polished poem in Spenserian verse. (See Text.) 

Edward Young (1681-1765. Royal chaplain, and author of "The 
Love of Fame" (1725-1728), a series of satires, and "The Com- 
plaint, or Night Thoughts" (1742-1746), on which his fame chiefly 
rests. (See Text.) 



GREAT REPRESENTATIVE WRITERS. 
John Dryden. Joseph Addison. Alexander Pope. 



V. 

FIRST CRITICAL PERIOD. 

(1660— 1745.) 

This period extends from the Restoration to the death of 
Pope and Swift. It was ushered in by a violent reaction. 

166. Violent Reaction.— - With all its moral earnestness 
and love of freedom, Puritanism had degenerated into a false 
and forbidding asceticism. It condemned many innocent pleas- 
ures. It clothed morality and religion in a garb of cant. The 
claims of the physical and intellectual parts of man were, under 
the influence of a terrific theology, sacrificed to his spiritual 
interests. All spontaneous joy and gayety were banished from 
life. The Puritan's steps were slow; his face was elongated; 
his tone had a nasal quality. He gave his children names 
drawn from the Scriptures ; and shutting his eyes to the beau- 
ties of the world about him, and forgetting the infinite love of 
God, he lived perpetually in the shadow of divine wrath. His 
religion, at war with nature and the gospel, degenerated into 
fanaticism and weighed heavily upon the life of the English 
nation. 

167. Reign of the Flesh. — With the Restoration, Puritan- 
ism was overthrown. The Royalist party, with its sharp con- 
trasts to Puritan principles, again came into power. The result 
in its moral effects was dreadful. The stream of license, which 
had been held in check for years, burst forth with fearful mo- 
mentum. The reign of the flesh set in. Virtue was held to 
savor of Puritanism; duty was thought to smack of fanaticism; 
and integrity, patriotism, and honor were regarded as mere 
devices for self-aggrandizement. Under the lead of Charles 

97 



9 8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

II., himself a notorious libertine, the court became a scene of 
shameless and almost incredible debauchery. The effect upon 
literature can be easily imagined. It debased the moral tone of 
poetry and the drama to a shocking degree. As Dryden tells 
us in one of his epilogues : — 

" The poets who must live by courts, or starve, 
Were proud so good a government to serve ; 
And, mixing with buffoons and pimps profane, 
Tainted the stage, for some small snip of gain." 

168. French Influence. — But there are other respects in 
which the Restoration affected literature. Charles II. returned 
to England with French companions and French tastes. It was 
but natural, therefore, that English literature should be influ- 
enced by French models. It was the Augustan Age of litera- 
ture in France. Louis XIV., the most powerful monarch in 
Europe, had gathered about him the best literary talent of the 
age. Corneille, Moliere, and Racine gave great splendor to 
dramatic poetry, and Boileau developed the art of criticism. 
But the French drama, besides following classical models in 
regard to the unities, imposed the burden of rhymed couplets 
upon dramatic composition. It was in obedience to the wish 
of Charles that rhyme w^as first introduced into the English 
drama. Through French influence the course of the drama, 
as it had been developed by the great Elizabethans, was seri- 
ously interrupted. 

169. Literary Criticism. — But in respect to literary criti- 
cism, the influence of France was more salutary. Boileau 
had displayed great critical acumen in estimating French au- 
thors, and had laid down correct principles by which to judge 
literary composition. The art of criticism took root in Eng- 
land. Dryden, whom Johnson calls the father of English criti- 
cism, sat at the feet of his great French contemporary, and in 
his numerous prefaces exhibited admirable judgment in weigh- 
ing the productions both of ancient and modern times. 

Pope, the greatest writer of the period, likewise followed 
French models. The characteristics of the new critcism, 



FIRST CRITICAL PERIOD. 99 

which gradually fashioned a corresponding literature, were 
clearness, simplicity, and good sense. 

170. Natural Science. — The Restoration gave a new im- 
pulse to natural science. Charles II. was himself something of 
a chemist, and even the profligate Buckingham varied his de- 
baucheries with experiments in his laboratory. In 1662 the 
Royal Society was founded, and for half a century inventions 
and discoveries in science followed one another in rapid suc- 
cession. The national observatory at Greenwich was estab- 
lished. The spirit of investigation showed great vigor. Halley 
studied the tides, comets, and terrestrial magnetism. Boyle im- 
proved the air-pump and founded experimental chemistry. 
Mineralogy, zoology, and botany either had their beginning or 
made noteworthy progress at this time. It was the age of Sir 
Isaac Newton. 

171. Period of Transition. — But this period was one of 
ferment and transition. Old faiths in politics, philosophy, and 
religion were being cast aside. Tradition and custom were 
summoned before the bar of reason. " From the moment of the 
Restoration," says Green, " w r e find ourselves all at once among 
the great currents of thought and activity which have gone 
on widening and deepening from that time to this. The Eng- 
land around us becomes our England, an England whose chief 
forces are industry and science, the love of popular freedom 
and of law; an England which presses steadily forward to a 
larger social justice and equality, and which tends more and 
more to bring every custom and tradition, religious, intellectual, 
and political, to the test of pure reason." The belief in the 
divine right of kings became a thing of the past. With the 
Revolution of 1688, which placed William of Orange on the 
throne, the prolonged conflict between the people and the king 
came to an end. The executive supremacy was transferred 
from the crown to the House of Commons. 

172. Augustan Age. — About the time Queen Anne as- 
cended the English throne in 1702, English literature, under the 
moulding influence from France, began to assume a more ele- 
gant form. The first half of the eighteenth century has some- 
times been characterized as the Augustan Age. It has been 



ioo ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

thought, not without some reason, to resemble the flourishing 
period of Roman literature under Augustus, when Ovid, Hor- 
ace, Cicero, and Virgil produced their immortal works. The 
names of Addison, Pope, and Swift are not unworthy to be 
placed side by side with the proudest names in the literature of 
Rome. 

173. Constitutional Government. — In this period the po- 
litical principles of the Revolution became predominant. Ab- 
solutism gave place to constitutional government. The Tories 
and ..the Whigs became well-marked parties and in turn suc- 
ceeded to the government. Corrupt political methods were fre- 
quently resorted to in order to gain party ascendency. Wal- 
pole boasted that every man had his price. An unselfish 
patriotism was too often looked on as youthful enthusiasm, 
which the coolness of age would cure. Leading statesmen led 
impure and dissipated lives. 

Yet in spite of these conditions, England attained to great 
influence in continental affairs. Victory attended her arms on 
the Continent under the leadership of Marlborough. The bat- 
tles of Blenheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde, and Malplaquet brought 
the power of Louis XIV. to the verge of destruction. The bal- 
ance of power was restored to Europe. The union of England 
and Scotland was effected in 1707, and English sovereigns 
henceforth reigned over the kingdom of Great Britain. The 
power of English thought, as well as of English arms, was felt 
abroad. Buffon found inspiration in its science; Montesquieu 
studied the institutions of England with great care; and Rous- 
seau borrowed many of his thoughts from Locke. The Eng- 
lish people once more became conscious of their strength, and 
felt the uplifting power of great hopes and splendid purposes. 

174. State of Society. — In several particulars the state of 
society does not present a pleasing picture. Education was 
confined to a comparatively limited circle. Addison complained 
that there were families in which not a single person could 
spell, " unless it be by chance the butler or one of the foot- 
men." Cock-fighting was the favorite sport of schoolboys, and 
bull-baiting twice a week delighted the populace of London. 
The theatres were not yet fully redeemed from the licentious- 



FIRST CRITICAL PERIOD. 101 

ness of the Restoration. Gambling was a common vice; and, 
what appears strange to us, the women of the time showed a 
strong passion for this excitement. Speaking of Will's Coffee- 
house, the Tatler says : " This place is very much altered since 
Mr. Dryden frequented it. Where you used to see songs, epi- 
grams, and satires in the hands of every one you met, you have 
now only a pack of cards." Fashionable hours became later, 
and a considerable part of the night was frequently given to 
dissipation. Drunkenness increased with the introduction of 
gin. The police were not able to control the lawless classes, 
and in the cities mobs not infrequently vented their rage in 
conflagration and pillage. When Sir Roger de Coverley, as 
portrayed by Addison, went to the theatre, he armed his serv- 
ants with cudgels for protection. 

175. Dress and Gossip. — - Woman had not yet found her 
true sphere; and, in wealthy or fashionable circles, her time 
was devoted chiefly to dress, frivolity, and scandal. In the 
" Rape of the Lock " Pope gives us a glimpse of conversation in 
court circles : — 

" In various talk th' instructive hours they pass'd, 
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; 
One speaks the glory of the British queen, 
And one describes a charming Indian screen ; 
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes ; 
At every word a reputation dies ; 
Snuff, or the fan, supplies each pause of chat, 
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that." 

176. Belief in Witchcraft. — Belief in witchcraft had not 
entirely passed away. In 1712 a witch was condemned to 
death ; and her prosecution was conducted, not by ignorant rus- 
tics, but by a learned author and an educated clergyman. It 
is in keeping with the belief of the time to find Sir Roger de 
Coverley puzzled over the character of Moll White and piously 
advising her " to avoid all communication with the devil, and 
never to hurt any of her neighbor's cattle." Superstition was 
common, and the people of every class had faith in omens. Re- 
ligion was at a low ebb. Scepticism was extensively prevalent, 



102 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

especially among the higher classes, and many of the clergy 
thought more of the pleasures of the chase than of the care 
of souls. " Every one laughs," said Montesquieu, " if one talks 
of religion." 

177. Rise of Methodism. — But there is also a more favor- 
able side to the social condition cf England during this period 

— some influences that contain the promise of a brighter day. 
In spite of the low state of Christianity, earnest men, like 
Doddridge, Watts, and William Law, were not wanting to in- 
culcate a genuine piety. The rise of Methodism under John 
Wesley and George Whitefield exerted a salutary influence upon 
the religious life of England. These great preachers, impressed 
by the realities of sin, redemption, and eternal life, urged these 
truths with surpassing eloquence upon the multitudes that 
flocked to hear them. Before the death of John Wesley his 
followers numbered a hundred thousand, and the Established 
Church was awakened to a new zeal. 

178. Clubs and Periodicals. — The clubs became an im- 
portant feature of social life in London. Coffee-houses multi- 
plied, till in 1708 they reached the number of three thousand. 
They became centres for the diffusion of intelligence. Here 
the leading political, literary, and social questions of the day 
were discussed. 

Periodical publications became an important factor in the 
intellectual life of England. In 1714 no fewer than fourteen 
papers were published in London. The principal periodicals 
were the Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian, which were conducted 
in a manner not only to refine the taste, but also to improve the 
morals. Made up of brief, entertaining, and often elegant es- 
says, and treating of every subject from epic poems to female 
toilets, they came to be welcomed at the club-house and break- 
fast-table, and exerted a wide and salutary influence upon the 
thought and life of the country. 

179. Sir Richard Steele. — Sir Richard Steele, the friend 
of Addison, led a somewhat wayward life. He left Oxford 
without taking his degree, and enlisted in the Horse Guards 

— an imprudence that cost him an inheritance. He rose to 
the rank of captain, but was gay, reckless, and dissipated. 



FIRST CRITICAL PERIOD. 103 

His naturally tender heart was constantly overcome by his 
imperious appetites, and his life presents a series of alternate 
repentance and dissipation. In 1701 he wrote the " Christian 
Hero," for the purpose of impressing the principles of virtue 
upon his own heart. Though it is filled with lofty sentiment, 
it remained without serious effect upon the author's life. Then 
followed in annual succession several moderate comedies. At 
length appointed Gazetteer, a position that gave him a monopoly 
of official news, he began the Tatler, called Addison to his aid, 
and was eclipsed by his coadjutor. 

180. Jonathan Swift. — Of Swift as a writer there can 
hardly be more than one opinion. In originality and power 
he excelled all the writers of his day. His genius expressed it- 
self in new and imperishable forms; and though much that he 
has written, especially in verse, is unworthy of him, his " Tale 
of a Tub," his " Gulliver's Travels," and his " Journal to Stella " 
will endure as long as the English language itself. No one else 
was more dreaded as an antagonist. " We were determined to 
have you on our side," the Tory leader Bolingbroke said to 
him ; " you were the only one we were afraid of." During the 
last years of Queen Anne's reign he was the chief literary sup- 
port of the Tory administration ; and more than any one else, 
it has been said, he formed the political opinions of the 
English nation. 

But of Swift as a man it is not easy to form a satisfactory 
estimate. His character exhibited contradictory qualities. In 
spite of the labors of numerous biographers and critics, he still, 
in some measure, remains an enigma. He was not a model of 
amiable temper or lofty purpose, and his career is full of 
striking and unpardonable faults. Yet that he was a monster of 
selfishness, hatred, and iniquity, as some have maintained, we 
cannot believe. He had the clear vision of a powerful mind. 
He saw through the shams and hypocrisies by which he was 
surrounded; and what has often been taken for heartless mis- 
anthropy was in reality an honest heroism which waged a 
thankless war on humbug and villainy. That he often went too 
far, that he was often coarse and terrible, cannot be denied 



104 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

or condoned. In his later years real or fancied wrongs goaded 
his proud, imperious nature into reckless fury. 

Before entering upon a consideration of the great representa- 
tive writers of this period, there are a few others that deserve 
mention. 

181. Two Famous Diarists. — John Evelyn and Samuel 
Pepys were two diarists, who have earned the thanks of pos- 
terity for the minute glimpses they give of the manners of the 
time. They both occupied high positions; and their daily en- 
tries furnish us small details, not only of much interest, but 
of historic value. As their diaries were not intended for 
publication, they present unvarnished and often unflattering 
facts. The luxury, gambling, and licentiousness of the court 
of Charles II. are disclosed in the plainest terms. The fol- 
lowing extract from Pepys, who was far from a model charac- 
ter," gives an idea of the amusements of the time: "Dec. 21. 
To Shoe Lane to see a cock-fight at a new pit there, a spot 
I never was at in my life; but, Lord! to see the strange variety 
of people, from parliament men, to the poorest 'prentices, bak- 
ers, brewers, butchers, draymen and what not, and all these 
fellows one with another cursing and betting. I soon had 
enough of it." . 

182. A Great Philosopher. — One of the greatest of all 
English philosophers was John Locke. He superintended the 
education of the Earl of Shaftesbury's son — an experience 
which developed the independent views contained in " Some 
Thoughts Concerning Education." His educational ideal was 
" a sound mind in a sound body," and he strongly inveighed 
against the unpractical character of the system then in vogue. 
He deservedly ranks among educational reformers. In 1689 he 
published a "Letter on Toleration" (afterward followed by 
several others), in which he maintained that charity, meek- 
ness, and good-will toward all mankind rather than zeal for 
dogma and ceremonies were the true marks of Christian char- 
acter. The work, however, through which he has exerted the 
greatest influence is his " Essay Concerning the Human Under- 
standing " — a profound treatise that marks an epoch in the 
history of philosophy. Its object, as explained in the introduc- 



FIRST CRITICAL PERIOD. 105 

tion, was " to inquire into the origin, certainty, and extent of 
human knowledge, together with the grounds and degrees of 
belief, opinion, and assent." 

183. Founder of the Novel — It was during this period 
that the modern novel had its origin. Before the middle of 
the eighteenth century, several works of fiction were produced 
that have gained - a permanent place in our literature. Avoid- 
ing the highly colored and extravagant elements of Elizabethan 
romance, they portray the scenes and characters of everyday 
life. The founder of the English novel was Daniel Defoe, a 
varied and prolific writer, who in some of his views was in 
advance of his age. In 1698 he published an "Essay on Pro- 
jects," in which he advocated the establishment of insurance 
companies, savings banks for the poor, and colleges for women. 
" A woman well-bred and well-taught," he said, " furnished 
with the additional accomplishments of knowledge and be- 
havior, is a creature without comparison." His " True-born 
Englishman," a poetical satire in defence of King William, ap- 
peared in 1701, and eighty thousand copies were sold on the 
streets of London. What it lacks in poetry it makes up in 
homely vigor. The opening lines are well known : — 

" Wherever God erects a house of prayer, 
The devil always builds a chapel there ; 
And 'twill be found upon examination, 
The latter has the largest congregation." 

184. " Robinson Crusoe." — Defoe's " Robinson Crusoe " 
appeared in 1619 and instantly became popular. Few other 
English books have been more widely read. " Nobody," said 
Johnson, " ever laid it down without wishing it longer." It 
was suggested by the real experience of Alexander Selkirk, 
and describes the life and adventures of Robinson Crusoe, who 
lived for twenty-eight years on an uninhabited island off the 
coast of South America. Encouraged by the success of " Rob- 
inson Crusoe," the author wrote other fictitious narratives, 
among which are " Moll Flanders," " Captain Singleton," and 
the " History of the Great Plague." All possess the charm of 
simplicity of style and air of truth, 



106 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

185. First Great Novelist. — Samuel Richardson deserves 
to be considered the first great English novelist. At first a 
printer, he stumbled, at the age of fifty, on the literary work 
that was to make him famous. It was suggested to him that he 
should prepare " a little volume of letters, in common style, 
on such subjects as might be of use to those country readers 
who were unable to indite for themselves." In undertaking 
the work, the happy thought occurred to him to embody in a 
series of letters an interesting story he had heard from a 
friend years before. The result was his first novel " Pamela, or 
Virtue Rewarded." Judged by present standards, the work 
is prolix and tedious; but when it appeared in 1740, it was some- 
thing new and had a widespread popularity. It was followed 
a few years later by " Clarissa Harlowe," by common consent 
Richardson's masterpiece. " This work raised the fame of its 
author to its height," said Sir Walter Scott, " and no work 
had appeared before, perhaps none has appeared since, con- 
taining such direct appeals to the passions in a manner so 
irresistible." 

186. Henry Fielding. — Henry Fielding — lawyer, journal- 
ist, dramatist — had abundant opportunity to observe the varied 
phases of English life. With abounding vitality and humor, he 
described men as he saw them. He was an eighteenth-century 
realist. The scenes he presents are often coarse and low; but 
these faults are to be imputed less to the painter than to the 
age he describes. When " Pamela " appeared in 1740, Fielding 
did not sympathize with what he regarded as its ostentatious 
morality and excessive sentimentalism. He conceived the idea 
of a caricature; and, accordingly, in 1742, he produced his 
" Joseph Andrews." It abounded in humor, exuberant feeling, 
and overflowing benevolence, and was received with scarcely 
less favor than the work it w T as designed to ridicule. 

187. " Tom Jones." — In 1749, in the full maturity of his 
powers, Fielding published his ablest work, " Tom Jones." The 
scene of the story is laid partly in the country, and partly in 
the city, and taken altogether the work may be regarded as an 
epic of English life. The characters have a singular reality. 
It is framed on a large scale and introduces a great many 



FIRST CRITICAL PERIOD. 107 

types of character. In its personages, manners, amusements, 
tone of thought, and forms of expression, it introduces us bet- 
ter than any history to the England of a century and a half 
ago. The author claimed superiority over professed historians. 
" In their productions," he declared, " nothing is true but the 
names and the dates, whereas in mine everything is true but 
the names and dates." The style of " Tom Jones," as in all 
Fielding's novels, is excellent; and what gives the book a 
peculiar charm, is the disinterested, genial spirit — a little too 
indulgent, perhaps, to the weakness of our nature — with which 
he seems to look on the scenes he portrays. 

188. A Satire in the Puritans. — Among the secondary 
poets to be mentioned, the first in time, as also in popularity, 
was Samuel Butler, who gave expression to the great anti- 
Puritanic reaction of the Restoration. His " Hudibras," the 
first part of which appeared in 1662, is a humorous satire 
against the Puritans, and in its day was exceedingly popular. 
Of Charles II. it was said that — 

" He never ate, nor drank, nor slept, 
But Hudibras still near him kept." 

The hero of the satire is a Puritan justice of the peace, who, 
with his servant Ralph, sallied forth, like another Don Quixote, 
to put an end to the amusements and follies of the people. Of 
course he came to grief. But the interest of the poem is not in 
the story, but in its humorous descriptions and electric flashes 
of wit. Few other books have been oftener quoted. Here is 
a description of Sir Hudibras : — 

" He was in logic a great critic, 
Profoundly skilled in analytic ; 
He could distinguish and divide 
A hair 'twixt south and south-west side; 
On either which he would dispute, 
Confute, change hands, and still confute." 

The following are well-known couplets : — 

" For all a rhetorician's rules 
Teach nothing but to name his tools." 



108 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

'* He that complies against his will, 
Is of the same opinion still." 

" And, like a lobster boiled, the morn 
From black to red began to turn." 

" Compound for sins they are inclined to, 
By damning those they have no mind to." 

189. The Poet of the Seasons. — James Thompson has 
been justly called the poet of nature. His " Seasons," which 
appeared between 1726 and 1730, possessed the charm of nov- 
elty. " The fresh treatment of a simple theme," to use the 
words of Professor Minto, "the warm poetical coloring of 
common place incidents, the freedom and irregularity of the 
plan, the boldness of the descriptions, the manly and sincere 
sentiment, the rough vigor of the verse, took by surprise a 
generation accustomed to witty satire and burlesque, refined 
diction, translations from the classics, themes valued in pro- 
portion to their remoteness from vulgar life." Thomson looked 
upon nature with a poet's eyes. If he learned from books, he 
learned also from observation. There is truth in the lines de- 
scribing his poetical life: — 

" I solitary court 
The inspiring breeze, and meditate the book 
Of Nature, ever open ; aiming thence, 
Warm from the heart, to pour the moral song." 

His descriptions are wonderfully accurate, vivid, picturesque ; 
and there is no phase of the various forms of earth and sky that 
has escaped the minuteness of his observation. 

190. Edward Young. — The poetry and the life of Edward 
Young present a painful contrast. In his poems he assumes the 
role of a high religious moralist; but in his life he was an ob- 
sequious courtier and persistent place-seeker. It was a great 
disappointment to him that George II., to whom he addressed 
a poem containing the following lines, took him at his word : — 

" O may I steal 

Along the vale 



FIRST CRITICAL PERIOD. 109 

Of humble life, secure from foes! 

My friend sincere, 

My judgment clear, 
And gentle business my repose." 

191. The " Night Thoughts." — The chief work entitling 
Young to a place in the annals of English literature is his 
" Night Thoughts." It was inspired by a triple bereavement 
that overwhelmed the poet with sorrow. " It differs," as he 
tells us, " from the common mode of poetry, which is, from 
long narratives to draw short morals ; here, on the contrary, the 
narrative is short, and the morality arising from it makes the 
bulk of the poem. The reason of it is that the facts mentioned 
did naturally pour these reflections on the thoughts of the 
writer.'' The poem embodies a sombre, ascetic view of life. 
Its style is characterized by short, exclamatory utterances, the 
suggestiveness of which is often quite effective. The opening 
lines, which are often referred to, are as follows : — 

" Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep ! 
He, like the world, his ready visit pays, 
Where Fortune smiles ; the wretched he forsakes ; 
Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, 
And lights on lids unsullied by a tear." 

Young's works abound in brief sententious sayings, and he 
rivals Shakespeare and Pope in the number of proverbial ex- 
pressions that have passed into current use. A few will serve 
for illustration : — 

" Tis impious in a good man to be sad." 

" Tis vain to seek in men for more than man.' 

" Pygmies are pygmies still, though perched on Alps." 

" Death loves a shining mark,., a signal blow." 

" The man that blushes is not quite a brute." 



no ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" Earth's highest station ends in ' Here he lies ' ; 
And ' dust to dust ' concludes the noblest song." 

The mind that coined these and many similar expressions 
was endowed with no ordinary gifts. 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

The England of Charles II., Green, " History of the English 
People," vol. III. pp. 327-339. The social and political condition 
of England during " The Augustan age," Green, " History of the 
English People," vol. IV. pp. 105-124. 

Some interesting entries from The Diarists. Locke as an edu- 
cational reformer, " Thoughts Concerning Education," and Paint- 
er's History of Education," pp. 230-238. A typical passage from 
Richardson's " Pamela." A description of the hero of "Hudi- 
bras." Thompson's minute observation of nature as illustrated in 
his " Spring." A review of Night I. in Young^s " Night 
Thoughts." The story of Gulliver's voyage to Lilliput. A de- 
scription of his experiences in Brobdingnag. An outline of Swift's 
" Battle of the Books," Stephen, " Life of Swift," Ch. 3, or Or- 
rery's " Life and Writings of Swift." A review of the " Tale of a 
Tub," Stephen or Orrery (as above). The relations of Swift 
to Stella and Vanessa, Stephen, " Life of Swift," ch. 6, Craik, 
" Life of Swift," Thackeray, " The English Humorists," and 
Painter " History of English Literature." 




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FIRST CRITICAL PERIOD. 



JOHN DRYDEN. 

192. Rank in Literature. — One of the greatest names in 
the literature of this period is John Dryden. He does not de- 
serve, indeed, to stand by the side of Chaucer, Spenser, Shake- 
speare, or Milton; but after these great names he comes at the 
head of the second rank. It was the fault of his age that he 
was not greater. No man can wholly detach himself from the 
influences by which he is surrounded; and Dryden came on the 
stage when a false taste prevailed, and when licentiousness gave 
moral tone to poetry. Living in the midst of burning religious 
and political questions, he was drawn into the vortex of con- 
troversy. He was always a partisan in some religious or po- 
litical issue of the day. While this fact has given us some of 
the best satirical and didactic poems in our language, it did not 
contribute, perhaps, to the largest development of his poetical 
powers. 

193. Absence of High Aims. — His aims were not high 
enough. " I confess," he said, " my chief endeavors are to de- 
light the age in which I live. If the humor of this be for low 
comedy, small accidents, and raillery, I will force my genius 
to obey it." This was a voluntary degrading of his genius and 
an intentional renouncing of the artistic spirit. Guided by 
such motives, it was impossible for him to attain the highest 
results. If, like Milton, he had concentrated all the energies 
of his strong nature on an epic poem, as he once contemplated, 
or on poetry as an art, his work would no doubt have been less 
faulty. But, taking him as he was, we cannot help admiring 
his genius, which created for him a distinct place in English 
literature. 

194. Early Years. — Dryden was born of good family in 
Northamptonshire in 1631. Both on his father's and his moth- 
er's side his ancestry was Puritan and republican. He was 



1 12 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

educated at Westminster school, under the famous Dr. Busby. 
A schoolboy poem on the death of Lord Hastings had the dis- 
tinction, and we may add the misfortune, of being published in 
connection with several other elegies called forth by the same 
event. Some of its conceits are exceedingly ridiculous. Dry- 
den's genius was slow in maturing, and much of his early 
work failed to give promise of his future eminence. 

195. Education. — He entered Trinity College, Cambridge, 
in 1650, and took his degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1654. No 
details of his college life have come down to us, except his 
punishment on one occasion for " disobedience to the vice- 
master, and contumacy in taking his punishment, inflicted by 
him." In 1654, by the death of his father, he came into the 
possession of a small estate worth about sixty pounds a year. 
After leaving Cambridge, for which he entertained no great 
affection, he went to London, and served for a time as secretary 
to his cousin, Sir Gilbert Pickering, a favorite of Cromwell. 

196. Two Eulogistic Poems. — In 1658 he composed " He- 
roic Stanzas " on the death of Oliver Cromwell, which caused 
him to be spoken of as a rising poet. Though disfigured here 
and there by conceits, it is, upon the whole, a strong, manly 
poem, showing a just appreciation of the great Protector's life. 
His next effort does not reflect credit on his character. It was 
the " Astrsea Redux," written " on the happy restoration and 
return of his sacred Majesty, Charles II." After his eulogy of 
Cromwell two years before, we are hardly prepared for such 
lines as these : — 

" For his long absence Church and State did groan ; 
Madness the pulpit, faction seized the throne : 
Experienced age in deep despair was lost, 
To see the rebel thrive, the loyal cross'd." 

197. Writing for the Stage. — In 1663 he began to write 
for the stage. Instead of seeking to elevate public morals, or 
to attain perfection in art, it is to the lasting discredit of 
Dryden that he pandered to the vicious taste of the time. His 
first play, " The Wild Gallant," was not successful ; and Pepys, 



JOHN DRYDEN. 113 

in his " Diary," pronounced it " so poor a thing as ever I saw in 
my life." Without following him through the vicissitudes of his 
dramatic career, it is enough to say that he wrote in all twenty- 
eight comedies and tragedies, and at length established his 
position as the first dramatist of his time. For a long time he 
followed French models, but at last came to recognize and 
professedly to imitate the " divine Shakespeare." In his com- 
edies, as he tells us, he copied " the gallantries of the court." 
When in later years Jeremy Collier severely attacked the im- 
moralities of the stage, Dryden, unlike several of his fellow- 
dramatists who attempted a reply, pleaded guilty, and retracted 
all thoughts and expressions that could be fairly charged with 
" obscenity, profaneness, or immorality." 

198. Heroic Style of Tragedy. — In his tragedies he im- 
itated the heroic style of Corneille. They contain much splen- 
did declamation, which too often degenerates into bombast. 
But frequently he reaches the height of genuine poetry. Only 
a poet could have written these lines : — 

" Something like 
That voice, methinks, I should have somewhere heard ; 
But floods of woe have hurried it far off 
Beyond my ken of soul." 

Or these : — 

" I feel death rising higher still and higher 
Within my bosom ; every breath I fetch 
Shuts up my life within a shorter compass, 
And, like the vanishing sound of bells, grows less 
And less each pulse, till it be lost in air." 

199. Intellectual Traits. — But the drama was not Dry- 
den's sphere. In his mind the judgment had ascendency 
over the imagination. He was strongest in analyzing, arguing, 
criticising. He was a master of satire — not indeed of that 
species which slovenly butchers a man, to use his own compari- 
son, but rather of that species which has " the fineness of 
stroke to separate the head from the body and leave it standing 
in its place." We shall say nothing of his " Annus Mirabilis," 



H4 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

a long poem on the Dutch war and the London fire, except that 
it contains some of his manliest lines. It is not easy to sur- 
pass : — 

" Silent in smoke of cannon they come on ; " 

"And his loud guns speak thick, like angry men;" 

" The vigorous seaman every port-hole plies, 
And adds his heart to every gun he fires." 

200. A Famous Satire. — In 1681 appeared the famous 
satire, "Absalom and Achitophel," the object of which was to 
bring discredit on the Earl of Shaftesbury and his adherents, 
who were seeking to secure the succession to the throne for 
the Duke of Monmouth, Charles's eldest son. It has been called 
the best political satire ever written. There is no effort at play- 
ful and delicate art ; the poem was composed in earnest, and it 
abounds in hard, sweeping, stunning blows. It was eagerly 
seized upon by the public, and in a year no fewer than nine 
editions were called for. The Earl of Shaftesbury figures as 
Achitophel : — 

" A name to all succeeding ages curst : 
For close designs, and crooked counsels fit; 
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit ; 
Restless, unfix'd in principles and place ; 
In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace : 
A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 
Fretted the pygmy-body to decay, 
And o'er-inform'd the tenement of clay; 
A daring pilot in extremity; 

Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high, 
He sought the storms; but for a calm unfit, 
Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit." 

The Duke of Buckingham is Zimri, whose character is out- 
lined with astonishing power : — 

" A man so various, that he seemed to be 
Not one, but all mankind's epitome : 



JOHN DRYDEN. 115 

Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; 
Was everything by starts, and nothing long: 
But in the course of one revolving moon, 
Was Chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon : 
Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, 
Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. 
Bless'd madman, who could every hour employ, 
With something new to wish, or to enjoy! 
Railing and praising were his usual themes ; 
And both, to show his judgment, in extremes." 

201. Religion of a Layman. — In 1682 appeared the " Re- 
ligio Laid." As an exposition of a layman's faith it was prob- 
ably an honest presentation of Dryden's beliefs at the time. 
Whether intended to serve a political purpose or not, is a mat- 
ter of dispute; but it attacks the Papists and at the same time 
declares the " Fanatics," by whom are meant the Nonconform- 
ists, still more dangerous — a declaration that accorded well 
with Charles's policy of persecution. It is entirely didactic in 
character and deservedly ranks as one of the very best poems of 
its class in English. Though it is closely argumentative 
throughout, it still- contains passages of much beauty. 

202. Art of Poetry. — In 1683 appeared a translation of 
Boileau's " L'Art Poetique." Though at first translated by a 
friend, Dryden's revisal made it practically his own. It is of 
interest, not only as showing the direct influence of French 
masters, but as setting forth the principles that underlay Dry- 
den's later work and the poetry of the earlier half of the 
eighteenth century. Reason largely takes the place of imagina- 
tion. Thus : — 

" Whate'er you write of pleasant or sublime, 
Always let sense accompany your rhyme ; 
Falsely they seem each other to oppose; 
Rhyme must be made with reason's laws to close." 

And in regard to diction : — 

" Observe the language well in all you write, 
And swerve not from it in your loftiest flight. 



n6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The smoothest verse and the exactest sense 
Displease us, if ill English give offence. 
Take time for thinking ; never work in haste ; 
And value not yourself for writing fast." 

203. Conversion to Catholicism. — On the accession of 
James, in 1685, Dryden became a Roman Catholic. This con- 
version has given rise to considerable discussion. Did it re- 
sult from conviction or from self-interest? It is impossible to 
determine. But, in the moderate language of Johnson, " That 
conversion will always be suspected that apparently concurs with 
interest. He that never finds his error till it hinders his prog- 
ress toward wealth or honor, will not be thought to love truth 
only for herself. Yet it may easily happen tha^" information 
may come at a commodious time, and as truth and interest are 
not by any fatal necessity at variance, that one may by accident 
introduce the other. When opinions are struggling into popu- 
larity, the arguments by which they are opposed or defended 
become more known, and he that changes his profession would 
perhaps have changed it before, with the like opportunities of 
instruction. This was then the state of popery; every artifice 
was used to show it in its fairest form; and it must be owned 
to be a religion of external appearance sufficiently attractive." 

204. " Hind and Panther."— As a result of this conver- 
sion we have the " Hind and Panther," a poem of twenty-five 
hundred lines, which is devoted to a defence of the Roman 
Church. This church is represented by the " milk-white hind," 
and the Church of England by the panther, a beautiful but 
spotted animal. Published at a time of heated religious con- 
troversy, it had a wide circulation. It was regarded by Pope 
as the most correct specimen of Dryden's versification ; and 
there can be no doubt that the author, knowing it would be 
criticised with the most unfriendly rigor, elaborated it with 
unusual care. The opening lines are beautiful : — 

" A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged, 
Fed on the lawns, and in the forest ranged ; 
Without unspotted, innocent within, 



JOHN DRY DEN. 117 

She feared no danger, for she knew no sin. 
Yet hath she oft been chased with horns and hounds 
And Scythian shafts, and many winged wounds 
Aimed at her heart ; was often forced to fly, 
And doomed to death, though fated not to die." 

205. " Mac Flecknoe." — At the Revolution Dryden did not 
abjure his faith, and, as a consequence, lost his office as poet 
laureate. In addition to the loss of his position, which he could 
ill afford to suffer, he had the chagrin of seeing his rival, 
Shadwell, elevated to his place. Against him he wrote at this 
time one of his keenest satires, entitled " Mac Flecknoe." 
Flecknoe, who had governed long, and — 

" In prose and verse was owned, without dispute, 
Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute," 

at length decides to settle the succession of the state, — 

" And, pondering, which of all his sons was fit 
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit, 
Cried, ' 'Tis resolved ; for nature pleads, that he 
Should only rule, who most resembles me. 
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, 
Mature in dulness from his tender years : 
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he, 
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. 
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, 
But Shadwell never deviates into sense.' " 

206. Translations. — Once more thrown upon his pen for 
support, Dryden turned to the stage, but chiefly to translation. 
In 1693 he published a volume of miscellanies, which con- 
tained translations from Homer and Ovid; and a little later 
appeared the satires of Juvenal and Persius. His theory of 
translation, as set forth in his prefaces is better than his prac- 
tice. He takes liberties with his author; and, as was the case 
with him in all his writings, he is far from painstaking. Be- 
sides, instead of mitigating, he magnified their obscenity. But, 
upon the whole, the translations are of high excellence. The 



u8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

most important of his translations was that of Virgil's " ^neid/' 
on which he labored three years. The public expectation was 
great, and it was not disappointed. Pope pronounced it " the 
most noble and spirited translation that I know in any lan- 
guage." 

207. Admiration of Chaucer. — Dryden, without under- 
standing the versification of Chaucer, admired his poetic beau- 
ties and translated several of the " Canterbury Tales " into cur- 
rent English. " As he is the father of English poetry," he says, 
i( so I hold him in the same degree of veneration as the Gre- 
cians held Homer or the Romans Virgil. He is a perpetual 
fountain of good sense, learned in all sciences, and therefore 
speaks properly on all subjects." It is to Dryden's credit that 
he chose those tales that do not savor of immodesty — " Pala- 
mon and Arcite," " The Cock and the Fox," and the " Wife 
of Bath's Tale," the prologue of which is omitted. Though his 
renderings into modern English are excellent, Chaucer's charm 
is somehow largely lost. To be convinced of this fact, it is 
only necessary to compare his rendering of the " Good Parson " 
with the original of the " Prologue." 

208. " Alexander's Feast." — Among his songs and odes, 
the best known is " Alexander's Feast." He wrote it at a single 
sitting and afterward spent a fortnight in polishing it. It is 
justly considered one of the finest odes in our language. Dry- 
den himself declared that it would never be surpassed. It was, 
perhaps, the last effort of his poetic genius, composed amid the 
pressing infirmities of age. It was fitting, to use the beautiful 
words of one of his heroes, that — 

"A setting sun 
Should leave a track of glory in the skies." 

He died May 1, 1700, and was buried with imposing pomp in 
Westminster Abbey. 

209. Excellent Prose.— Dryden's prose is scarcely less ex- 
cellent than his verse. He wrote much on criticism in the form 
of prefaces in his various works. He avoided, as a rule, the 
common mistakes in the prose of his time — inordinately long 
sentences and tedious parenthetic clauses. He says he formed 



JOHN DRY DEN. iiq 

his prose style on Tillotson but Tillotson never had the ease, 
point, and brilliancy of Dryden. He was a clear, strong thinker, 
with a great deal to say; and often compressing his thought 
into a few well-chosen words, he sent them forth like shots 
from a rifle. He delighted in argument, and on either side of a 
question he could marshal his points with almost matchless 
skill. Whether attacking or defending the Roman Church, he 
showed equal power. 

210. Poetic Shortcomings. — Dryden did not*attain to the 
highest regions of poetry. He could not portray what is deep- 
est and finest in human experience. His strong, masculine 
hands were too clumsy. He has no charm of pathos ; he does 
not touch that part of our nature where " thoughts do often lie 
too deep for tears." But he was a virile thinker and a mas- 
ter of the English tongue. He had the gift of using the right 
word ; and in the words of Lowell he " sometimes carried com- 
mon-sense to a height where it catches the light of a diviner air, 
and warmed reason till it had well-nigh the illuminating prop- 
erty of intuition." 

211. Mode of Writing. — He made literature a trade. He 
wrote rapidly, and having once finished a piece, he did not, 
year after year, patiently retouch it into perfection. Perhaps 
he wrote too much. Voltaire said that he " would have a glory 
without a blemish, if he had only written the tenth part of his 
works." Yet, in spite of his faults, we recognize and admire 
his extraordinary intellectual force and the indisputable great- 
ness of his literary work. At Will's Coffee-house, where his 
chair had in winter a prescriptive place by the fire, and in sum- 
mer a choice spot on the balcony, he was fitted, beyond all 
others of his time, to reign as literary dictator. 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Mitford, "Dryden's Works," Saintsbury, " Life of Dryden " 
(English Men of Letters), Johnson, "Lives of the Poets," Macau- 
lay, "Essay on Dryden," Lowell, "Among My Books," vol. 1. 

A comparison of " Heroic Stanzas " and " Astrea Redux." The 



120 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Earl of Shaftesbury in history and in Dryden's satire. Is the 
poet just to the character of the Duke of Buckingham? (For 
both studies, consult the index of Macaulay's " History of Eng- 
land " and Green's "History of the English People"). Rules for 
writing in Boileau's " Art of Poetry " and Horace's " Art of Poet- 
ry " in Dryden's translations. The character of the good parson 
in Chaucer's " Prologue " and Dryden's translation. 

"A Song for St. Cecilia's Day" and "Alexander's Feast" are 
given in the selections of Part II. 




Engraved by Simon after the painting by Kneller. 



JZ. jf<^2^iL. 



FIRST CRITICAL PERIOD. 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 

212. Genial Humor. — There is no other writer in Eng- 
lish literature of whom we think more kindly than of Joseph 
Addison. Macaulay has given very strong expression to the 
same sentiment. " After full inquiry and impartial reflection," 
he says, " we have long been convinced that he deserved as 
much love and esteem as can be justly claimed by any of our 
infirm and erring race." 

We read his writings with a refined and soothing pleasure. 
They possess a genial humor and unvarying cheerfulness that 
are contagious and delightful. There is no other writer who 
has greater power to dispel gloominess. As seen through his 
pages, the world appears wrapped in a mellow light. We learn 
to think more kindly of men, to smile at human foibles, to 
entertain ennobling sentiments, to trust in an overruling provi- 
dence. 

213. Range of Topics. — He does not indeed usually treat 
of the deeper interests of human life; he is never profound; he 
does not try to exhaust a subject — to write it to the dregs. 
His sphere is rather that of minor morals, social foibles, and 
small philosophy. But if he is not deep, he is not trifling; and 
if he is not exhaustive, he is always interesting. He uses satire, 
but it is never cruel. It does not, like that of Swift, scatter 
desolation in its path. On the contrary, it is tempered with 
a large humanity, and like a gentle rain, dispenses blessings in 
its course. It leads, not to cynicism, but to tenderness. 

214. Social Reform.— He enlisted wit on the side of 
virtue; and by his inimitable humor, good sense, genial satire, 
and simple piety, he wrought a great social reform. " So effec- 
tually, indeed," says Macaulay, " did he retort on vice the mock- 
ery which had recently been directed against virtue, that, since 
his time, the open violation of decency has always been con- 
sidered amongst us the sure mark of a fool." 



122 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

215. Education. — Joseph Addison was born in Wiltshire 
in 1672, his father, a man of some eminence, being dean of 
Lichfield. Though, there is a tradition that he once took a lead- 
ing part in barring out his teacher, and on another occasion 
played truant, his youthful scholarship proves him to have been 
a diligent student. From the school at Lichfield he passed to 
Charter House. Here he made the friendship of Steele, which, 
as we shall see, was not without influence upon his subsequent 
career and fame. 

At the age of fifteen he entered Oxford with a scholarship 
far in advance of his years, attracted attention by his superior 
Latin verses, and was elected a scholar of Magdalen College, 
where he took his degree of Master of Arts in 1693. He was 
held in high regard for his ability and learning. His portrait 
now hangs in the college hall, and his favorite walk on the 
banks of the Cherwell is still pointed out. 

216. Attempts at Poetry.- — After writing a number of 
Latin poems, which secured the praise of the great French critic 
Boileau, he made his first attempt in English verse in some 
lines addressed to Dryden, at that time preeminent among men 
of letters. This maiden effort had the good fortune to please 
the great author and led to an interchange of civilities. 

At this time Addison's mind seemed inclined to poetry, and 
he published some lines to King William, a translation of Vir- 
gil's fourth Georgic, and " An Account of the Greatest Eng- 
lish Poets," all of which have but little to commend them 
except correct versification. The last poem is remarkable for 
having a discriminating criticism of Spenser, whose works the 
author at that time had not read. " So little sometimes/' com- 
ments Dr. Johnson, " is criticism the effect of judgment." 

217. Prepares for Public Service. — Addison was a mod- 
erate Whig in politics, and by his poems had conciliated the 
favor of Somers and Montague, afterward Earl of Halifax. 
In conformity with the wishes of his father and his own in- 
clinations, he contemplated taking orders in the Anglican 
Church; but through the influence of Montague, who was un- 
willing to spare him to the church, he was led to prepare him- 
self for the public service. 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 123 

218. On the Continent. — He was granted a pension of 
three hundred pounds, and spent the next several years in 
travel on the Continent, visiting France, Italy, Switzerland, 
Germany, and Holland. He improved his opportunities in per- 
fecting his knowledge of the French language, in visiting lo- 
calities of historic interest, and in making the acquaintance of 
illustrious scholars and statesmen. His observations on the 
French people, as given in a letter to Montague, are worth read- 
ing : " Truly, by what I have yet seen, they are the happiest 
nation in the world. Tis not in the power of want or slavery 
to make them miserable. There is nothing to be met with in 
the country but mirth and poverty. Every one sings, laughs, 
and starves. Their conversation is generally agreeable ; for if 
they have any wit or sense, they are sure to show it. They 
never mend upon a second meeting." 

219. Fruits of Travel. — The immediate literary fruits of 
his travels were a poetical epistle to Lord Halifax, which ranks 
among his best verses, and " Remarks on Italy," in which his 
observations are made to illustrate the Roman poets. In his 
"Letter to Lord Halifax " he gives expression to his delight and 
enthusiasm in finding himself in the midst of scenes associated 
with his favorite authors : — 

" Poetic fields encompass me around, 
And still I seem to tread on classic ground ; 
For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung, 
That not a mountain rears its head unsung; 
Renowned in verse each shady thicket grows, 
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows." 

220. A Fine Hymn. — Here should be mentioned also one 
of his best hymns. While sailing along the Italian coast, he en- 
countered a fierce storm. The captain of the ship lost all hope 
and confessed his sins to a Capuchin friar who happened to be 
on board. But the young English traveller solaced himself 
with the reflections embodied in the famous hymn : — 

" When all thy mercies, O my God, 
My rising soul surveys, 



i2 4 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Transported with the view I'm lost 
In wonder, love, and praise." 

221. "The Campaign." — Toward the close of 1703 Addi- 
son returned to England and was cordially received by his 
friends. He was enrolled at the Kit-Kat Club and thus brought 
into contact with the chief lights of the Whig party. The way 
was soon opened to a public office. 

The battle of Blenheim was fought in 1704, and Godolphin, 
the Lord Treasurer, wished to have the great victory worthily 
celebrated in verse. He was referred by Halifax to Addison. 
The result was " The Campaign," which was received with ex- 
traordinary applause both by the minister and the public. Its 
chief merit is the rejection of extravagant fiction, according 
to which heroes are represented as mowing down whole squad- 
rons with their single arm, and a recognition of those Qualities 
— energy, sagacity, and coolness in the hour of danger — which 
made Marlborough really a great commander : — 

" 'Twas then great Marlbro's mighty soul was proved 
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, 
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, 
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war ; 
In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed, 
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, 
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, 
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. 
So when an angel by divine command 
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, 
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past, 
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast ; 
And, pleased the Almighty's orders to perform, 
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm." 

This simile of the angel the Tatter pronounced " one of the 
noblest thoughts that ever entered into the heart of man." 

222. State Service. — From this time on the career of Addi- 
son was a brilliant one. In 1704, in grateful recognition of his 
poem, he received the Excise Commissionership, made vacant by 
the death of the celebrated John Locke. In 1706 he became 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 125 

one of the Under-Secretaries of State; and two years later he 
entered Parliament, where, however, his natural timidity kept 
him from participating in the debates. In 1709 he was ap- 
pointed Chief Secretary for Ireland; and, while residing in 
that country, he entered upon that department of literature on 
which his fame chiefly rests, and in which he stands without a 
rival. 

223. The Tatler. — Shortly after Steele began the Tatler 
in 1709, he invited Addison's aid as a contributor. The result 
may be best expressed in Steele's own words : " I fared," he 
said, "like a distressed prince who calls in a powerful neigh- 
bor to his aid. I was undone by my auxiliary. When I had 
once called him in, I could not subsist without dependence on 
him." The Tatler was published three times a week, and, after 
reaching two hundred and seventy-one numbers, was discon- 
tinued Jan. 2, 171 1. 

224. The Spectator. — It was succeeded by the Spectator, 
which appeared six times a week. The first number was issued 
March 1, 171 1, — two months after the discontinuance of the 
Tatler. It was considered at the time a bold undertaking; but 
the result more than justified the confidence of Steele and Ad- 
dison, its promoters. 

It is made up of an incomparable series of short essays, which 
have all the interest of fiction and the value of philosophy. 
They are represented as the productions of an imaginary specta- 
tor of the world, a description of whom in the first paper we 
recognize as a caricature of Addison himself. " Thus I live in 
the world," it is said, " rather as a spectator of mankind than 
as one of the species, by which means I have made myself 
a speculative statesman, soldier, merchant, and artisan, with- 
out ever meddling with any practical part in life. I am very 
well versed in the theory of a husband or a father, and can 
discern the errors in the economy, business, and diversions of 
others, better than those who are engaged in them ; as standers- 
by discover blots, which are apt to escape those who are in 
the game. I never espoused any party with violence, and am 
resolved to observe an exact neutrality between the Whigs and 
Tories, unless I shall be forced to declare myself by the hostili- 



126 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ties of either side. In short, I have acted in all the parts of 
my life as a looker-on, which is the character I intend to pre- 
serve in this paper." 

225. Spirit and Style. — The plan, it must be perceived, is 
excellent. Addison wrote about three-sevenths of the six hun- 
dred and thirty-five numbers. He poured into them all the 
wealth of his learning, observation, and genius. The variety is 
almost endless, but the purpose is always moral. He is a great 
teacher without being pedantic. His wholesome lessons are so 
seasoned with playful humor, gentle satire, and honest amiability 
that they encounter no resistance. Vice becomes ridiculous and 
virtue admirable. And his style is so easy, graceful, perspicu- 
ous, elegant, that it must remain a model for all time. " Give 
days and nights, sir," said the blunt Dr. Johnson, " to the 
study of Addison, if you mean to be a good writer, or what is 
more worth an honest man." 

226. Popularity. — The Spectator created a large constitu- 
ency, and every number was eagerly waited for. It found a 
welcome in the coffee-houses and at many a breakfast-table. 
Its daily circulation was more than three thousand; and when 
the essays were published in book form, ten thousand copies 
of each volume were immediately called for, and successive 
editions were necessary to supply the popular demand. 

227. " Cato." — In 1713 appeared Addison's tragedy of 
" Cato," the first four acts of which had been written years 
before in Italy. It was only at the urgent solicitation of his 
friends that he consented to its representation on the stage. 
Its success was astonishing. For a month it was played before 
crowded houses. Whigs and Tories vied with each other in 
its praise, applying its incidents and sentiments to current poli- 
tics. " The Whigs applauded every line in which liberty was 
mentioned, as a satire on the Tories ; and the Tories echoed 
every clap, to show that the satire was unfelt." It was trans- 
lated into Italian and acted at Florence. 

228. Pope's Defense. — On its publication, however, its 
popularity began to abate. It was savagely attacked by Dennis. 
Addison was too amiable to write a reply. Pope, however, as- 
sailed the furious critic, but left the objections to the play in 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 127 

full force. It is probable that he was more desirous of scourg- 
ing Dennis than of vindicating Addison. At all events, Addison 
did not approve of the bitterness of Pope's reply, disclaimed 
all responsibility for it, and caused Dennis to be informed that 
whenever he thought fit to answer, he would do it in the man- 
ner of a gentleman. Of course Pope was mortified.; and it is 
to this transaction that his dislike of Addison is orobably to be 
traced. 

229. Marriage. — In 1716, after a long courtship, Addison 
married Lady Warwick. She was a woman of much beauty, 
but also of proud and imperious temper. The marriage, it 
seems, did not add to his happiness. According to Dr. Johnson, 
the lady married him " on terms much like those on which a 
Turkish princess is espoused, to whom the Sultan is reported 
to pronounce, ' Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave.' " 
His domestic infelicity caused him to seek more frequently the 
pleasures of the coffee-house. His fondness for wine likewise 
increased. 

230. Secretary of State.- — The year after his marriage he 
reached the summit of his political career as Secretary of State. 
But his health soon failed; and after holding office for eleven 
months, he resigned on a pension of fifteen hundred pounds. 
His complaint ended in dropsy. A shadow was cast over the 
last years of his life by a quarrel with Steele, arising from 
a difference of political views. He died June 17, 1719. His 
last moments were perfectly serene. To his stepson he said, 
" See how a Christian can die." His piety was sincere and 
deep. All nature spoke to him of God ; and the Psalmist's 
declaration that " the heavens declare the glory of God," he 
wrought into a magnificent hymn : — 

" The spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky, 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame 
Their great Original proclaim." 

231. Thackeray's Estimate. — Speaking of this hymn, 
Thackeray says : " It seems to me those verses shine like the 
stars. They shine out of a great deep calm. When he turns 



128 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

to Heaven, a Sabbath comes over that man's mind; and his 
face lights up from it with a glory of thanks and prayer. His 
sense of religion stirs through his whole being. In the fields, 
in the town; looking at the birds in the trees; at the children 
in the streets ; in the morning or in the moonlight ; over his 
books in his own room ; in a happy party at a country merry- 
making or a town assembly : good-will and peace to God's crea- 
tures, and love and awe of Him who made them, fill his pure 
heart and shine from his kind face. If Swift's life was the 
most wretched, I think Addison's was one of the most enviable. 
A life prosperous and beautiful — a calm death — an immense 
fame and affection afterward for his happy and spotless name." 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Courthope, " Life of Addison " (English Men of Letters) ; Car- 
ruthers, "Pope's Life and Letters " ; Johnson, " Lives of the 
Poets " ; Dobson, " Life of Steele " ; De Quincey, " Literary 
Reminiscences " ; Thackeray, " English Humorists " ; Macaulay, 
" Essay on Addison." 

The points of interest noted in Rome, " Remarks on Italy." 
A study of Addison's hymns. A review of " The Campaign." An 
outline of the tragedy of " Cato." A comparison of the " Song for 
St. Cecilia's Day " with Dryden's ode. Reflections in Westminster 
Abbey, Spectator, No. 26. Critique on the ballad of Chevy Chase, 
Spectator, No. 70. The Vision of Mirza, Spectator, No. 159. A 
review of the " Essay on Criticism," Spectator, No. 253. A com- 
parative study of the essays of Addison and Bacon, Painter's 
" Guide to Literary Criticism," Part II. 

A number of the Sir Roger de Coverley papers are given among 
the selections of Part II. 




Engraved by J. Stow after the painting by A. Pond. 



J. (fa, 



FIRST CRITICAL PERIOD 



ALEXANDER POPE. 

232. Literary Pre-eminence. — The greatest literary char- 
acter of this period is Alexander Pope. In his life we find 
much to admire and much to condemn ; but we cannot deny him 
the tribute of greatness. With his spiteful temper and habitual 
artifice, we can have no sympathy; but we recognize in him 
the power of an indomitable will supported by genius and di- 
rected to a single object. 

He triumphed over the most adverse circumstances. A lowly 
birth cut him off from social position ; his Roman Catholic faith 
brought political ostracism; and a dwarfed, sickly, deformed 
body excluded him from the vocations in which wealth and 
fame are usually acquired. Yet, in spite of this combination of 
hostile circumstances, he achieved the highest literary distinc- 
tion, attracted to him the most eminent men of his day, and 
associated on terms of equality with the proudest nobility. 

233. Childhood. — Alexander Pope was born in London in 
1688, the memorable year of the Revolution. His father, a 
Roman Catholic, was a linen merchant; and shortly after the 
poet's birth he retired with a competent fortune to a small es- 
tate at Binfield in Windsor Forest. 

Though delicate and deformed, the future poet is represented 
as having been a sweet-tempered child; and his voice was so 
agreeable that he was playfully called the " little nightingale." 
Excluded from the public schools on account of his father's 
faith, he passed successively under the tuition of three or four 
Roman Catholic priests, from whom he learned the rudiments 
of Latin and Greek. In after years he thought it no disadvan- 
tage that his education had been irregular; for, as he observed, 
he read the classic authors, not for the words but for the sense. 

234. Miscellaneous Reading. — At the age of twelve he 
formed a plan of study for himself, and plunged into the de- 



130 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

lights of miscellaneous reading with such ardor that he came 
near putting an end to his life. While dipping into philosophy, 
theology, and history, he delighted most in poetry and criticism ; 
and either in the original or in translations (for he read what 
was easiest) he familiarized himself with the leading poets and 
critics of ancient and modern times. But in the strict sense 
of the term he never became a scholar. Seeing all other avenues 
of life closed to him, he early resolved to devote himself to 
poetry, to which no doubt he felt the intuitive impulse of genius. 
He showed remarkable precocity in rhyme. In his own lan- 
guage, — 

" As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came." 

235. Poetic Apprenticeship. — He was encouraged in his 
early attempts by his father, who assigned him subjects, re- 
quired frequent revisions, and ended with the encouragement, 
" These are good rhymes." Before venturing before the public 
as an author, he served a long and remarkable apprenticeship 
to poetry. Whenever a passage in any foreign author pleased 
him, he turned it into English verse. Before the age of fifteen 
he composed an epic of four thousand lines, in which he en- 
deavored, in different passages, to imitate the beauties of Milton, 
Cowley, Spenser, Statius, Homer, Virgil, Ovid and Claudian. 
" My first taking to imitating " he says, " was not out of vanity, 
but humility. I saw how defective my own things were, and 
endeavored to mend my manner by copying good strokes from 
others." 

Among English authors he fixed upon Dryden as his model, 
for whom he felt so great a veneration that he persuaded some 
friends to take him to the coffee-house frequented by that dis- 
tinguished poet. " Who does not wish," asks Johnson, " that 
Dryden could have known the value of the homage that was 
paid him and foreseen the greatness of his young admirer?" 

236. Wise Counselors. — His earliest patron, if such he 
may be called, was Sir William Trumbull, who, after serving 
as ambassador at Constantinople under James II., and as Secre- 
tary of State under William III., had withdrawn from public 



ALEXANDER POPE. 131 

service and fixed his residence in the neighborhood of Binfield. 
The extraordinary precocity of the youthful poet delighted the 
aged statesman, who was accustomed to ride and discuss the 
classics with him. It was from him that Pope received the first 
suggestion to translate the " Iliad." 

Another acquaintance belonging to this youthful period was 
William Walsh, a Worcestershire gentleman of fortune, who 
had some reputation at the time as a poet and critic. From 
him the ambitious youth received a bit of advice which has 
become famous. " We have had several great poets," he said, 
" but we have never had one great poet who was correct ; and 
I advise you to make that your study and aim." This advice 
Pope evidently laid to heart. 

237. First Great Work.— The first great work that Pope 
produced was the "Essay on Criticism," which was published 
in 1711. It was written two years previously, when the author 
was but twenty-one years of age. As was his custom with all 
his writings, he kept it by him in order to revise and polish it. 

It shows a critical power and soundness of judgment that 
usually belong only to age and experience. It is true that the 
critical principles he lays down are not original or novel. At 
this time Pope had his head full of critical literature. Horace's 
" Ars Poetica " and Boileau's " L'Art Poetique " were perfectly 
familiar to him, to say nothing of Quintilian and Aristotle. He 
embodied in his poem the principles he found in his authorities. 
But he did this with such felicity of expression and aptness of 
illustration as to win the admiration, not only of his contem- 
poraries, but also of succeeding generations. 

238. Defects. — But the poem is not without its faults. It 
would be too much to expect that; for, as he says, — 

" Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, 
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be." 

Its extreme conciseness renders it obscure in places ; words 
are sometimes used in a vague and variable sense; and there is 
a noticeable poverty of rhymes, " wit " and " sense " and " fools " 
being badly overworked. Yet, if he had written nothing else, 



132 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

this production alone would have given him a high rank as critic 
and poet. 

239. Literary Feuds. — The publication of the " Essay " 
was the beginning of a ceaseless strife with contemporary writ- 
ers. In the following lines the youthful poet had the temerity 
to attack Dennis, whose acquaintance we made in the sketch 
of Addison : — 

" But Appius reddens at each word you speak, 
And stares tremendous with a threatening eye, 
Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry." 

This graphic picture inflamed the belligerent Dennis, and he 
made a bitter personal attack upon Pope, of whom, among 
other savage things, he says : " He may extol the ancients, but 
he has reason to thank the gods that he was born a modern; 
for had he been of Grecian parents, and his father consequently 
had by law had the absolute disposal of him, his life had been 
no longer than that of one of his poems — the life of half a 
day." 

240. A Brilliant Mock-heroic. — The next important pro- 
duction of Pope was " The Rape of the Lock," published in 1712. 
It is the most brilliant mock-heroic poem ever written. The 
subject is trifling enough. Lord Petre, a man of fashion at the 
court of Queen Anne, playfully cut off a lock of hair from the 
head of Miss Arabella Fermor, a beautiful maid of honor. 
This freedom was resented by the lady, and the friendly inter- 
course of the two families was interrupted. To put the two 
parties into good humor, and thus to effect a reconciliation, 
Pope devised this humorous epic. Sylphs, gnomes, nymphs, 
and salamanders form a part of the delicate machinery. Here 
is a description of the unfortunate lock : — 

" This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, 
Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind 
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 
With shining ringlets the smooth iv'ry neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 133 

With hairy springes we the birds betray; 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey; 
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, 
And beauty draws us with a single hair." 

241. Translation of Iliad. — In 1713 Pope undertook the 
translation of Homer's " Iliad." The work was published by 
subscription; and as he had already gained recognition as the 
first poet of his time, the enterprise met with generous en- 
couragement. Among other influential friends, Swift was active 
in securing subscriptions. At first the poet was appalled at the 
magnitude of his undertaking, and wished, to use his own 
phrase, that somebody would hang him. But facility increased 
with practice; and his defective knowledge of Greek was rem- 
edied by the use of translations and the aid of scholarly friends. 

This translation, in connection with the " Odyssey," was his 
principal labor for twelve years, and it brought a remuneration 
that had never before been realized by an English author. He 
received altogether about eight thousand pounds, which fur- 
nished him with a competency the rest of his life. The trans- 
lation is wrought out with exceeding care; but in its artificial 
character, it is far from reproducing the simplicity of the 
original. It brings Homer before us in a dress-suit. Bentley's 
criticism was exactly to the point : " It is a pretty poem, Mr. 
Pope, but you must not call it Homer." Yet it is a wonderful 
work ; and Johnson was not far wrong when he said, " It is cer- 
tainly the noblest version of poetry which the world has ever 
seen, and its publication must therefore be considered as one 
of the great events in the annals of learning." 

242. Satire on Addison. — In the sketch of Addison ref- 
erence was made to the ill-feeling existing between the illustri- 
ous essayist and Pope. It came to an open rupture in connection 
with the publication of the " Iliad." Tickell, a friend of Addi- 
son's, undertook a rival translation. He had Addison's encour- 
agement and perhaps also his assistance. It is possible that the 
essayist felt some jealousy of the rising reputation of the poet, 
and used his influence, in a civil way, to depreciate the latters 
work. At all events, news of this sort came to Pope ; and " the 



134 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

next day," he says, " while I was heated with what I had 
heard, I wrote a letter to Mr. Addison, to let him know that I 
was not unacquainted with this behavior of his ; that if I was to 
speak severely of him, in return for it, it should not be in such 
a dirty way ; that I should rather tell him, himself, fairly of his 
faults, and allow his good qualities ; and that it should be some- 
thing in the following manner." He then added what has since 
become the famous satire on Addison, in which the lack of 
justice is made up by brilliancy of wit: — 

" Peace to all such ; but were there one whose fires 
True genius kindles and fair fame inspires ; 
Blest with each talent and each art to please, 
And born to write, converse, and live with ease ; 
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, 
Bear like the Turk no brother near the throne, 
View him with scornful yet with jealous eyes, 
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise, 
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer; 
And, without sneering-, teach the rest to sneer; 
Willing* to wound and yet afraid to strike, 
Just hint a fault and hesitate dislike, 
Alike reserved to blame or to commend, 
A timorous foe and a suspicious friend ; 
Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, 
And so obliging that he ne'er obliged ; 
Like Cato give his little Senate laws, 
And sit- attentive to his own applause, 
While wits and templars every sentence raise, 
And wonder with a foolish face of praise ; — 
Who but must laugh if such a man there be? 
Who would not weep if Atticus were he ? " 

243. At Twickenham. — After becoming independent from 
the proceeds of his Homeric translations, Pope removed to 
the villa of Twickenham, where he spent the remainder of his 
life. Here he received his friends, who were among the most 
polished men of the time. Gay, Arbuthnot, Bolingbroke, Peter- 
borough, Swift, were all warmly attached to him — " the most 



ALEXANDER POPE. 135 

brilliant company of friends," says Thackeray, " that the world 
has ever seen." 

244. Filial Piety. — We should not forget the filial piety 
he showed his parents — one of the most beautiful features of 
the poet's life. However spiteful, acrimonious, and exacting 
toward others, to his mother he was always tender, considerate, 
patient. In her old age he stayed by her, denying himself the 
pleasure of long visits and foreign travel. While conventionally 
courteous and formal in his relations to other women, for whom, 
after the fashion of the time, he seemed to entertain no high 
opinion, he was simple and unaffected toward her. And when 
she died, he spoke of her with peculiar tenderness : " I thank 
God, her death was as easy as her life was innocent; and as 
it cost her not a groan, or even a sigh, there is yet upon her 
countenance such an expression of tranquillity, nay, almost of 
pleasure, that it is even enviable to behold it. It would afford 
the finest image of a saint expired that ever painter drew." 

245. " The Dunciad." — As soon as Homer was off his 
hands, he proceeded to get even with the critics who had at- 
tacked his previous writings. The result was the " Dunciad," 
the most elaborate satirical performance in our language, which 
was given to the public in 1728. 

We cannot think that, as he claims, his object was " doing 
good " by' exposing ignorant and pretentious authors ; from 
what we know of his character, we are justified in supposing 
that personal pique animated him no less than zeal for the honor 
of literature. Theobald, whose grievous offence was surpassing 
Pope in editing Shakespeare, is elevated to the throne of Dul- 
ness, though he is afterward deposed to make place for Cibber. 

The satire had the desired effect; it blasted the characters 
it touched. One of the victims complained that for a time he 
was in danger of starving, as the publishers had no longer any 
confidence in his ability. The poem is not interesting as a 
whole, but contains many splendid flights, as in the concluding 
lines, which describe the eclipse of learning and morality under 
the darkening reign of advancing Dulness. 

246. The " Essay on Man." — The " Essay on Man," his 
noblest work, appeared in 1733. It consists of four " Epistles " : 



i 3 6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

the first treats of man in relation to the universe ; the second, 
in relation to himself; the third, in relation to society; and the 
fourth, in relation to happiness. The " Epistles " are addressed 
to Bolingbroke, by whom the " Essay " was suggested, and from 
whom many of its principles proceeded. It is not so much a 
treatise on man as on the moral government of the world. Its 
general purpose is to — 

" Vindicate the ways of God to man." 

This is done by an application of the principles of natural 
religion to the origin of evil, the wisdom of the Creator, and 
the constitution of the world. But, as a whole, the " Essay " 
does not present a consistent and logical system of teaching. 
Pope was not master of the deep theme he had undertaken ; and 
he was content to pick up in various authors whatever he could 
fit into his general plan. 

247. Last Illness. — Pope died in 1744. A few days before 
his death he became delirious. On recovering his rationality, 
he referred to his delirium as a sufficient humiliation of the 
vanity of man. Bolingbroke was told that during his last ill- 
ness Pope was always saying something kind of his present or 
absent friends, and that his humanity seemed to have survived 
his understanding. " It has so," replied the statesman ; " and 
I never in my life knew a man that had so tender a heart for his 
particular friends, or more general friendship for mankind." 

As the end drew near, Pope was asked whether a priest should 
not be called. He replied, "I do not think it essential, but 
it will be very right; and I thank you for putting me in mind 
of it." He had undoubting confidence in a future state. Shortly 
after receiving the sacrament, .he said : " There is nothing that 
is meritorious but virtue and friendship, and indeed friendship 
itself is only a part of virtue." He lies buried at Twickenham. 

248. Personal Appearance. — In appearance he was the 
most insignificant of English writers. He was a dwarf, four 
feet high, hunch-backed, and so crooked that he was called the 
" Interrogation Point." His life was one long disease. He re- 
quired help in dressing and undressing; and to keep erect, he had 



ALEXANDER POPE. 137 

to encase his body in stays. Extremely sensitive to cold, he 
wore three or four times the usual amount of clothing. But his 
face was pleasing, his voice agreeable, and his eyes especially 
were beautiful and expressive. He was fastidious in dress and 
elegant in manner. As night naturally be expected, he was 
punctilious and troublesome, requiring so much attention that 
he was the dread of servants. Fond of highly seasoned dishes, 
and unable to control his appetite, he frequently made himself 
sick by overeating. 

249. Traits of Character. — He was singularly lacking in 
manly frankness, seeking always to attain his ends by artifice. 
It was said of him that he hardly drank tea without stratagem ; 
and Lady Bolingbroke used to say that " he played the politi- 
cian about cabbages and turnips." But he carried his artifice 
to higher matters and manipulated his correspondence and his 
writings in the interest of his reputation. 

His character was full of contradictions. While professing 
to disregard fame, he courted it; while affecting superiority 
to the great, he took pleasure in enumerating the men of high 
rank among his acquaintances; while appearing indifferent to 
his own poetry, saying that he wrote when " he just had noth- 
ing else to do," he was always revolving some poetical scheme 
in his head, so that, as Swift complained, he was never at 
leisure for conversation ; and while pretending insensibility to 
censure, he writhed under the attacks of critics. Yet it is to 
his credit tha't he never put up his genius to the highest bid- 
der, and that he never indulged in base flattery for selfish ends. 
His translation of the " Iliad " he dedicated, not to influential 
statesmen or titled nobility, but to the second-rate dramatist, 
Congreve. In his view of life he fixed his attention upon its 
petty features, forgetting the divine and eternal relations that 
give it dignity and worth. 

250. Estimate of his Genius. — As a poet, it is too much 
to claim that his verses attained the highest imaginative flights, 
such as we find in Shakespeare and Tennyson. He was not 
swayed by the fine frenzy, the overmastering convictions, and 
the tormenting passions that irresistibly force an utterance. He 
conformed his writings to a conventional form. He sought 



138 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

above all, in imitation of classical models, correctness of style. 
And, in the words of James Russell Lowell, " in his own prov- 
ince he still stands unapproachably alone. If to be the greatest 
satirist of individual men, rather than of human nature, if to 
be the highest expression which the life of the court and the 
ballroom has ever found in verse, if to have added more phrases 
to our language than any other but Shakespeare, if to have 
charmed four generations, make a man a great poet — then he 
is one. He was the chief founder of an artificial style of writ- 
ing, which in his hands was living and powerful, because he used 
it to express artificial modes of thinking and an artificial state 
of society. Measured by any high standard of imagination, he 
will be found wanting; tried by the test of wit, he is unrivalled." 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Carruthers, " Pope's Life and Letters " ; Stephen, " Life of 
Pope," (English Men of Letters) ; Johnson, "Lives of the Poets"; 
Thackeray, " English Humorists " ; Lowell, " My Study Win- 
dows." 

A review of the " Rape of the Lock." A critique of Pope's 
translation of Homer, Stephen, " Life of Pope," ch. III., and 
Matthew Arnold, " On Translating Homer." Had Pope sufficient 
grounds for satirizing Addison? Stephen, "Life of Pope," ch. 
II. ; Macaulay, " Essay on Addison " ; Courthope, " Life of Addi- 
son," ch. VII. Some characterizations from " The Dunciad." A 
collection of choice passages from the " Essay on Man." A com- 
parison of the " Ode on St. Cecilia's Day " with that of Dryden. 
Johnson's famous parallel between Pope and Dryden, " Lives of the 
Poets." 

The "Essay on Criticism" will be found among the selections 
of Part II. 



AGE OF JOHNSON. 
PRINCIPAL WRITERS. 

Orators. — Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751-1816). Orator, poli- 
tician, and dramatist. Pitt said of his speech in the trial of Warren 
Hastings, " that it surpasses all the eloquence of ancient or modern 
times." Two of his dramas, "The Rivals" (1775) and "The 
School for Scandal" (1777), take high rank. 

Edmund Burke (1730-1797). Orator, statesman, and author. 
His principal works are his " Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas 
of the Sublime and Beautiful" (1756) and his "Reflections on the 
Revolution in France" (1790). (See Text.) 

Historians. — David Hume (1711-1776). Historian and phi- 
losopher. Author of "Essays Moral and Political" (1741), "In- 
quiry Concerning the Human Understanding" (1748), "History of 
England" (1754-1762), etc. (See Text.) 

William Robertson (1721-1793). Clergyman and historian. Au- 
thor of "History of Scotland" (1759), "History of Charles V." 
(1769), and "History of America" (1777). (See Text.) 

Edward Gibbon (1737-1794). Author of "The Decline and Fall 
of the Roman Empire" (1776-1788), etc. (See Text.) 

Poets. — Mark Akenside (1721-1771). His principal book is his 
"Pleasures of the Imagination" (1744), suggested by Addison's 
essay on the same subject in the Spectator. 

Thomas Gray (1716-1771). His poem "A Distant Prospect of 
Eton College" (1742) attracted attention. His best-known poem is 
the "Elegy in a Country Churchyard" (1750). "Progress of 
Poesy" (1755) and "The Bard," which was not completed, are his 
other productions. One of the most artistic of English poets. 

William Collins (1721-1759. A lyrical poet of fine genius. His 
volume of " Odes," published in 1747, fell still-born from the press. 
His " Ode on the Death of Thomson," " Ode . to Evening," and 
" Ode on the Passions " are excellent poems. 

139 



i 4 o ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

George Crabbe (1754-1832). His principal poem is "The Vil- 
lage" (1783). He was Augustan in the form of his poetry, using 
the rhymed couplet, but modern in spirit. Byron calls him " Na- 
ture's sternest painter, but the best." 

James Beattie (1735-1803). "The Minstrel," his best poem, 
appeared, the first part in 1771, and the second part in 1774. It is 
written in Spenserian stanza and marks the transition from the arti- 
ficial to the natural school. (See Text.) 

William Shenstone (1714-1763). "The Schoolmistress" (1742) 
is a poem in Spenserian verse, belonging to the rising romantic 
school. It describes a village school. 

William Cowper (1731-1800). A poet marking the transition 
from the artificial to the natural school. Author of the ballad of 
"John Gilpin," a series of moral satires — "The Progress of Er- 
ror," " Truth," " Table Talk," etc. — and " The Task,' his greatest 
work. Famous also as a letter-writer. 

Miscellaneous. — Thomas Warton (1728-1790). Professor of 
Poetry at Oxford, and author of a " History of English Poetry " 
(1781), extending to the early part of the seventeenth century. 

Thomas Percy (1729-1811). Bishop, and author of " Reliques of 
Ancient English Poetry." (See Text.) 

James Boswell (1 740-1 795). Friend of Dr. Johnson, noting that 
great writer's speech and actions. His " Life of Dr. Johnson " 
(1791) is regarded as one of the best biographies ever written. 

Horace Walpole (1717-1797). Earl of Oxford, and author of 
"The Castle of Otranto " (1765), written in an extravagant roman- 
tic style, and " Historic Doubts on the Life and Reign of Richard 
III." (1768). 

Adam Smith (1723-1790). Political economist, and author of 
"The Wealth of Nations" (1776), a widely influential book, lay- 
ing the foundations of a national political economy. 



GREAT REPRESENTATIVE WRITERS. 
Samuel Johnson. Oliver Goldsmith. Robert Burns. 



VI. 

AGE OF JOHNSON. 

(1745— 1800.) 

251. Why so Called. — The course of English literature is 
marked by a succession of rises and descents. Notwithstand- 
ing the presence of a few writers of marked excellence, the 
period under consideration is one of literary decadence. Old 
influences were giving place to new. This period is named after 
Johnson, the great literary dictator, simply as a matter of con- 
venience. While he was the centre of an influential literary 
group for many years, and the most picturesque and command- 
ing literary figure of his time, other and mightier influences 
were at work, giving a new tone and direction to literature. 

252. A Period of Transition. — In great measure Johnson 
bore the impress of the preceding period. In his poetry he is 
coldly classical ; and in part, at least, of his prose, he is an 
imitator of Addison. The real characteristic of this second half 
of the eighteenth century is transition. By the side of the liter- 
ary forms and canons of the age of Pope, there arose a new kind 
of writing distinguished by a return to nature. Artificial poetry 
had already been carried to its utmost limits; and if literature 
was to reach a higher excellence, it was obliged to assume a 
new form. And to this it was urged by the momentous social, 
political, and religious changes that took place, not only in 
England, but on the Continent and in America during the lat- 
ter part of the century. 

253. Social Advancement. — In their onward course man- 
kind made a marked advance. In social and political relations 
the rights of men were more clearly recognized, and the brother- 
hood of mankind began to affect existing customs and institu- 
tions. As in all great forward movements of the world, a 
variety of causes cooperated in bringing about great changes. 

• 141 



142 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Unwilling hands often played an important part. The stupidity 
and obstinacy of George III. and some of his ministers hastened 
the formal declaration of those principles of liberty which mark 
a new era in civil government. 

254. Democratic Tendencies.— A strong tendency of the 
age was crystallized in the Declaration of Independence. " We 
hold these truths to be self-evident," said the wise and coura- 
geous representatives of the American colonists, " that all men 
are created equal ; that they are endowed by their Creator with 
certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, 
and the pursuit of happiness ; that, to secure these rights, gov- 
ernments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers 
from the consent of the governed." This solemn declaration 
sounded the knell of absolutism in the world. It is a political 
gospel that is destined to leaven the whole lump. 

But how came the American colonists to a recognition of the 
weighty truths embodied in this declaration? They simply 
voiced the growing spirit of the age. The greater diffusion of 
knowledge had opened the eyes of mea to a better perception of 
truth. The force of custom and prejudice was, in a measure, 
broken. The claims of superiority set up by privileged classes 
were seen to be baseless, and injustice and oppression in the 
state were discerned and denounced. 

255. Growing Intelligence. — In England there was a 
noteworthy advance in popular intelligence. Remarkable inven- 
tions in the mechanic arts placed new power in the hands of the 
producing classes. The use of coal in smelting iron ; the open- 
ing of canals throughout England ; the invention of the spinning- 
jenny and power-loom; the perfecting of the steam-engine with 
its wide application to manufacturing purposes — all this brought 
people together in large communities, greatly raised the average 
intelligence, and established the industrial supremacy of Eng- 
land. 

Printing-presses were set up in every town; circulating li- 
braries were opened; newspapers were multiplied; and monthly 
magazines and reviews fostered the general intelligence that 
called them into being. The proceedings of Parliament were 



AGE OF JOHNSON. 143 

regularly published and naturally became the subject of dis- 
cussion in every club-room and at many a hearthstone. The 
first great English journals — 'the Morning Chronicle, the 
Morning Post, and the Times — date from this period. 

256. Improved Moral Tone. — The moral and religious 
state of society showed marked improvement. The Wesleyan 
revival had rendered the fox-hunting clergyman an impossibility. 
Grossness gave way to decorum in life. Indecency was almost 
wholly banished from the stage and from literature. This 
happy change is illustrated in an incident told us by Sir Walter 
Scott. His grandaunt assured him that, when led by curiosity 
to turn over the pages of a novel in which she had delighted in 
her youth, she was astonished to find that, sitting alone at the 
age of eighty, she was unable to read without shame a book 
which sixty years before she had heard read out for amusement 
in large circles, consisting of the best society in London. 

257. Altruistic Movements. — This improved moral tone 
was not restricted to sentiment. One of the noble features of 
this period was the active efforts to improve the condition of the 
unfortunate and the oppressed. The slave-trade, which Eng- 
lishmen had long made a source of profitable commerce, was 
abolished. Hospitals were established. Howard, by his noble 
enthusiasm and incessant labors, secured a reform in prison 
discipline. Robert Raikes of Gloucester established the Sunday- 
school, which for England was the beginning of popular edu- 
cation. 

258. England a World-power. — With the conclusion of 
the Seven Years' War, England entered upon her career as a 
world-power. She ceased, in large measure, to be a rival of 
Germany or France. By the treaty of Paris, in 1763, Canada 
and the Mississippi Valley were ceded to England, and the 
future of America as an English-speaking nation was secured. 
Through the fearless explorations of Cook, numerous islands in 
the Pacific, including Australia, were added to the domain of 
England. The victory of Plassey, in 1757, laid the foundation 
of English supremacy in India. England was felt to be, to use 
the words of Burke, " but part of a great empire, extended by 



i 4 4 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

our virtue and our fortune to the farthest limits of the east and 
the west." 

259. Effects on Literature. — The inevitable result of all 
these conditions was an increasing sense of power, a greater 
breadth of view, and especially a clearer recognition of the 
rights of men. The foundations were laid for a vigorous 
literature, but the completed results were not to appear till the 
succeeding period. A noteworthy feature of the time is the 
predominance of prose. Poetry retires somewhat into the back- 
ground; fancy gives place to reason. It was a practical age, 
largely absorbed in material advancement and political and so- 
cial reform. 

260. Brilliant Oratory. — The period of Johnson was bril- 
liant in its oratory. The world has never seen a group of 
greater orators than Pitt, Fox, Chatham, Sheridan, Burke. 
Great questions of government presented themselves for con- 
sideration and action. Through the activity of the press, elo- 
quence was no longer bounded by the halls of Parliament, but 
extended to the limits of the kingdom. Much of the eloquence 
of the time is imperishable. The principles of human liberty, 
of sound political economy, and of manly integrity have never 
had better utterance. "Sir," exclaimed Pitt, after the passage 
of the Stamp Act had aroused resistance, " I rejoice that Amer- 
ica has resisted. Three million of people, so dead to all the 
feelings of liberty as voluntarily to be slaves, would have been 
fit instruments to make slaves of the rest." 

261. Edmund Burke. — The most prominent figure in this 
group of orators was Edmund Burke. " I have learned more 
from him," exclaimed Fox in a burst of admiration, "than from 
all the books I ever read." To philosophical depth Burke added 
the glow of imagination; and to vast resources of fact, he joined 
the warmth of ardent feeling. His grasp of principles and his 
expression of lofty sentiment give a permanent value to his 
masterful speeches. Though he sometimes wearied his auditors 
by his profundity and length, his efforts at their best have the 
immortality that belongs to the orations of his master Cicero. 
Among his many able speeches, that on " Conciliation with 
America " is usually regarded as the best. 



AGE OF JOHNSON. 145 

262. His Authorship. — But Burke was an author as well 
as orator. In 1756 he wrote an " Inquiry into the Sublime and 
Beautiful," which, though highly esteemed in its day, has been 
superseded by later works on art criticism. In 1770 appeared 
his " Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents," which 
is an elevated, philosophical discussion of existing political con- 
ditions. His most important work is his " Reflections on the 
French Revolution." It was a passionate arraignment of the 
revolutionary movement. " Its appeal to the passions, its cruel 
force and wit," says Gosse, " its magnificent, direct incentive 
to reaction, all these gave the ' Reflections ' an amazing interest 
to those who had just witnessed, with bewilderment, the incom- 
prehensible and unexampled progress of events in France. 
Upon all the trembling kings of Europe, upon the exiles on the 
Rhine especially, the book fell like rain after a long drought." 

263. Three Great Historians.— During the period before 
us, historical writing attained an excellence that has scarcely 
been surpassed. There arose three great historians who brought 
to their narratives philosophical insight and a finished excel- 
lence of style. Among the historians of the world, there are 
few greater names than Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon. 

(1). David Hume.— Hume very early developed a passion 
for literature, which continued through life his ruling purpose 
and chief enjoyment. His earlier publications — a " Treatise on 
Human Nature " and his " Philosophical Essays " — slowly 
gained recognition. His sceptical and philosophical views were 
attacked. The sale of his works increased. But he never al- 
lowed himself to be drawn into controversy. " I had a fixed 
resolution," he says, " which I inflexibly maintained, never to 
reply to anybody; and not being very irascible in my temper, 
I have easily kept myself clear of literary squabbles. These 
symptoms of a rising reputation gave me encouragement, as I 
was ever more disposed to see the favorable than the unfavor- 
able side of things ; a turn of mind which is more happy to 
possess than to be born to an estate of ten thousand - a year." 

"History of England." — In 175 1 he removed from the 
country to Edinburgh, where the most of his subsequent life 
was spent. Here he soon began his " History of England," the 



146 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

work that has given him a permanent place in English litera- 
ture. The successive volumes appeared at intervals between 
1754 and 1762. At first coldly received, it gradually forced 
itself into notice and became the source of a considerable in- 
come. It is characterized by great clearness and elegance of 
narrative, but is not always trustworthy and judicial in its con- 
clusions. His judgment was sometimes warped by his sceptical 
and Tory prejudices. Macaulay pronounces him " an accom- 
plished advocate." 

(2) . William Robertson. — William Robertson, like Hume, 
early manifested a strong literary enthusiasm and ambition. In 
1741 he entered the ministry; and while endearing himself to 
his people by his kindness, fidelity and eloquence, he employed 
his leisure in historical researches. In 1759 he published his 
" History of Scotland," which met with instantaneous success. 
Fourteen editions were called for during the author's life, and 
the work has taken permanent rank as a standard history. 

Other Great Works. — In 1762 Robertson was elected 
Principal of the University of Edinburgh; but the cares of his 
new office did not silence his pen. After nine years of labor, 
he published his " History of Charles V.," which was every- 
where received with great applause. " It is to you and Mr. 
Hume," wrote Voltaire, " that it belongs to write history. You 
are eloquent, learned, and impartial. I unite with Europe in 
esteeming you." The work was translated into French ; and 
the remuneration received by the author is said to have been no 
less than four thousand pounds. Though hostile critics pointed 
out many inaccuracies of a minor character, the work retains 
its place as a splendid contribution to our historical literature. 

Robertson concluded his series of splendid historical works 
with his " History of the Discovery and Settlement of Amer- 
ica." His style is one of equable dignity. His integrity as a 
narrator is beyond all question. " In arranging and linking to- 
gether into one harmonious whole the scattered parts of his 
subject," says a biographer, "he is eminently happy; and in 
delineating characters, manners, and scenery, in making vividly 
present to the mind that which he describes, he has few rivals 
and no superiors." 



AGE OF JOHNSON. 147 

(3.) Edward Gibbon. — Edward Gibbon was unquestion- 
ably the greatest of this triumvirate of historians. His fame 
rests almost exclusively on his " History of the Decline and Fall 
of the Roman Empire," to which he devoted twenty laborious 
years. He was admirably equipped by nature and culture for 
this vast undertaking. He had a natural bent for historic in- 
vestigation. Along with a wide sweep of intellect, he had a 
genius for minute investigation. He had a strong artistic sense, 
which enabled him to marshal in due order and proportion the 
vast multitude of details. His methodical habits of study made 
him master of all available sources of information. Except 
when Christianity comes under review, he is exceedingly judi- 
cious in weighing evidence and forming conclusions. In treat- 
ing of Christianity, the hostility imbibed from the school of 
. Voltaire instantly betrays him into fallacy or unfairness. 

Stately Dignity of Style. — The style of " The Decline and 
Fall " is remarkable for its stately dignity. It has been charac- 
terized as " copious, splendid, elegantly rounded, distinguished 
by supreme artificial skill." It is enriched by suggestive epi- 
thets. With a less magnificent subject, the style must have 
been condemned as false or even ridiculous. But no grander 
theme ever engaged historian's pen. Mighty movements ap- 
pear in succession upon the broad historic canvas — the triumph 
of Christianity, the invasions of the barbarians, the develop- 
ment of the papal power, the rise of Mohammedanism, the re- 
ligious enthusiasm of the crusades, the fall of Constantinople 
and the extinction of the empire of the East. It was but nat- 
ural that the historian's soul should be elevated by the contem- 
plation of so grand a theme, and that his style should rise into 
a corresponding dignity and splendor. 

264. Romantic Movement. — One of the most remarkable 
phenomena in the literature of recent times is the romantic 
movement which originated in this period. A similar move- 
ment, known as the " Storm and Stress," manifested itself in 
Germany about the same time. The same tendency followed a 
little later in France under the leadership of the great Victor 
Hugo. The romantic movement, which has been defined as lib- 
eralism in literature, is a reaction against the classicism of the 



148 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

age of Queen Anne. It is a breaking away from authority and 
a return to nature. It manifested itself in two particulars : first, 
a greater freedom in literary form; and, second, in a return to 
the past, particularly to an idealized age of chivalry in the Mid- 
dle Ages. The rhymed couplet began to give place to blank 
verse, the Spenserian stanza, and the varied lyrical forms of 
the Elizabethan era. In criticism, fiction and poetry there was 
an evident turning to the past. 

265. Turning to the Past.— In 1765 Bishop Percy pub- 
lished his " Reliques of English Poetry," a collection of old 
ballads that proved little less than an epoch-making book. The 
stirring force of these ballads, which sprang directly from the 
hearts of the people, increased dissatisfaction with the coldness 
of classical models. Thomas Warton's " History of English 
Poetry," published between 1774 and 1781, revealed the treas- 
ures of earlier English literature. In 1765 Horace Walpole laid 
the foundation of the modern romantic novel with his " Castle 
of Otranto," a wild extravagant story of " miracles, necromancy, 
dreams, and other preternatural evils believed in during the 
Middle Ages." Two remarkable forgeries, which gave rise to 
much discussion in their day, were associated with the romantic 
tendency. The first was the " Poems of Ossian," put forth by 
James Macpherson in 1762 as a translation of a Gaelic bard of 
the third century. The other was the " Rowley Poems," written 
by a marvellous boy of seventeen, Thomas Chatterton, and pur- 
porting to be the work of a priest of the fifteenth century. 

266. Interest in Man.— Two other characteristics are to 
be noted in the poetry of this period. The first is the new inter- 
est in man, apart from class or rank. There is a new apprecia- 
tion of the worth and' dignity of human nature. This fact may 
be regarded as one of the manifestations of the democratic tend- 
ency of the age. In his famous " Elegy," Gray celebrates — 

" The short and simple annals of the poor." 

Goldsmith dwells on the various phases of humble life in 
" The Deserted Village " ; and Burns, filled with the rising spirit 
of democracy, exclaims, — • 



AGE OF JOHXSOX. 149 

" What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hodden gray, and a' that; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine — 

A man's a man for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king of men for a' that." 

267. Love of Nature. — Xature, likewise, appears in a new 
relation. Instead of serving exclusively as a background for 
human interests, it is loved and studied for its own sake. Rural 
scenes and country life are frequently depicted. This tendency 
began, as we have seen, w 7 ith Thomson's " Seasons." But his 
descriptions, though often minute and admirable, were too sys- 
tematic and cold. He seems to have studied nature as a self- 
imposed task rather than from the drawings of a sympathetic 
love. In the " Minstrel " of James Beattie, published in 1771,. 
we first meet with descriptions of nature in the spirit of Words- 
worth and more recent writers. The minstrel boy " knew 7 great 
Nature's charms to prize." 

" And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, 
When all in mist the world below was lost — 
What dreadful pleasure ! there to stand sublime, 
Like shipwrecked mariner on desert coast, 
And view the enormous waste of vapor, tossed 
In billows, lengthening to the horizon round, 
Now scooped in gulfs, with mountains now embossed, 
And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound ; 

Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound ! " 

The same love of nature, as we shall see, is found in Gold- 
smith, and Burns. 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Social conditions In England, Green, " History of the English 
People," vol. iv., pp. 272-308. Nature of the Romantic movement, 
Phelps, " Beginning of the English Romantic Movement." 



150 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The plot of Sheridan's " School for Scandal." An analysis of 
Burke's " Conciliation with the Colonies " (Syle's edition, Sibley 
& Co.). Gibbon's early love, Howell's edition of the "Autobiog- 
raphy," pp. 117-119. The concluding reflections of the "Auto- 
biography." A comparison of the styles of Burke's " Concilia- 
tion " and the first chapter of the " Decline and Fall," Painter's 
" Guide to Literary Criticism," Part II. 

A study of Gray's poem, " A Distant Prospect of Eton College." 
A critique of his " Elegy in a Country Churchyard." A study of 
Collins' "Ode to Evening" and "Ode on the Passions." (For 
the last three subjects, consult Painter's "Guide to Literary Criti- 
cism," chs. vii-ix.) Graphic scenes from Cowper's "The Winter 
Evening " and " the "Winter Morning Walk." The story of John 
Gilpin. A review of Macpherson's " Ossian." Romantic elements 
in Crabbe's " The Village." A comparative study of the styles of 
the three great historians, Painter's " Guide to Literary Criticism." 




Engraved by William Doughty after the painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds, London. Published, 



(fiJ^jktUiU. 



AGE OF JOHNSON. 151 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 

268, A Piece of Rugged Manhood. — There is no other 
English author with whom we are so intimately acquainted. 
Through the hero-worship of his biographer Boswell, we are 
permitted to see and hear him as he appeared in the circle of 
his most intimate friends. We get close to the man as he ac- 
tually was. We know his prejudices, foibles, and peculiari- 
ties ; and strange to say, this minute acquaintance does not 
lessen, but increases our admiration and love. He was a piece 
of rugged Alpine manhood. But his towering greatness was 
softened by a benevolence that never failed to reach out a 
helping hand to the needy; and his brusqueness of manner 
was relieved by an integrity of character that scorned every 
form of hypocrisy. In the midst of so much pettiness and 
cant it is delightful to contemplate his sturdy uprightness and 
independence ; as Carlyle said of Luther, " A true son of na- 
ture and fact, for whom these centuries, and many that are 
to come yet, will be thankful to Heaven." 

269. Peculiarities. — His peculiarities of person and man- 
ner are well known. He was ponderous in body as in intellect. 
A scrofulous affection, for which Queen Anne had laid royal 
hands upon him, had disfigured his face, and also tinged his 
mind, perhaps, with whim and melancholy. He had a rolling 
walk, and made it a habit to touch the posts as he passed. His 
appetite for tea was enormous ; and he ate with an absorbing 
interest that might properly be called ravenous. His sight 
was defective; but when Reynolds painted him with a pen held 
close to his eye, he protested that he did not want to descend 
to posterity as " blinking Sam." He was singularly insensible 
to music; and when a musical performance was praised as be- 
ing difficult, he simply said that he wished it had been impos- 
sible. After he had published his dictionary he was once with 



152 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

a friend at the top of a hill. " I haven't had a roll for a long 
time," said the great lexicographer; and, emptying his pockets, 
he stretched himself on the ground, turning over and over, like 
a barrel, till he reached the bottom. 

270. In Conversation. — But in spite of physical defects 
and eccentric manners, he dominated, by the sheer force of 
genius, the most brilliant club of London and became the most 
imposing literary figure of his age. In conversation he was 
ready and eloquent, though apt to bear down an opponent by 
mere vociferation or savage personality. " There is no argu- 
ing with Johnson," said Goldsmith; "for if his pistol misses 
fire, he knocks you down with the butt-end of it." He looked 
upon, conversation as an intellectual wrestling and delighted in 
it as a skilled and powerful athlete. " That fellow," he once 
said when sick, " calls forth all my powers. Were I to see 
Burke now, it would kill me." 

271. Early Years. — Samuel Johnson was born at Lichfield 
in 1709, the son of a bookseller of considerable ability and repu- 
tation. As a boy he was fond of athletic exercises, in which 
he excelled; and he possessed a constitutional fearlessness that 
made him a natural leader. At the grammar school of his 
native town he acquired the rudiments of Latin under a stern 
discipline. Though he afterward complained of the severity 
of his teachers, he remained a believer in the virtues of the- 
rod. " A child that is flogged," he said, " gets his task, and 
there's an end on't; whereas by exciting emulation and com- 
parisons of superiority, you lay the foundations of lasting 
mischief; you make brothers and sisters hate each other." 

272. At the University. — He left school at sixteen and 
spent the next two years at home, probably learning his 
father's business. He continued his studies, became a good 
Latin scholar, and accumulated large stores of general infor- 
mation. He was a voracious reader. In 1728 he entered 
Pembroke College, Oxford, with an unusual store of knowl- 
edge. He suffered from poverty, and at the end of three 
years he left the university without taking a degree. Attacks 
of melanchory sometimes drove him to the verge of insanity. 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 153 

When reminded in after years that he had been " a gay and 
frolicsome fellow," he replied : " Ah, sir, I was mad and 
violent. It was bitterness which they mistook for frolic. I 
was miserably poor, and I thought to fight my way by my 
literature and my wit; so I disregarded all power and all 
authority." In his poverty he remained proud ; and when a 
new pair of shoes was placed at his door by some benevolent 
person, he ungraciously flung them away. 

273. Marriage. — In 1731 he left the university to make his 
way in the world. For the next thirty years his life was a con- 
stant struggle with poverty and hardship. Though of a deeply 
religious nature, he did not turn to the church for a living. 
He tried teaching, and failed. At the age of twenty-six he 
married a fat, gaudy widow of forty-eight. To Johnson's 
defective sight she always remained a " pretty creature,'' while 
she had discernment enough to see the worth and ability of her 
husband. Though his declaration, that " it was a love match 
on both sides," is apt to meet with some incredulity, the mar- 
riage did not prove an unhappy one, and there is something 
pathetic in the tenderness with which he always referred to 
her. 

274. Days of Trial. — In 1737 he went to London with 
three or four guineas and half of the tragedy of " Irene " in 
his pocket. Literature at this time did not offer an inviting 
field. It generally meant poorly paid hack-work for pub- 
lishers. Long afterward, in recalling the trials of this period, 
Johnson burst into tears. One of the publishers to whom he 
applied for work advised him, after surveying his athletic 
frame, to get a " porter's knot and carry trunks." He was 
often in want of food, clothes, and lodging. In these days 
of precarious livelihood he was befriended by Harry Hervey, 
toward whom he ever afterward cherished a lively sense of 
gratitude. " Harry Hervey," he said shortly before his death, 
" was a vicious man, but very kind to me. If you call a dog 
Hervey, I shall love him." 

Notwithstanding his dependent condition, he did not be- 
come obsequious. His feeling of manly independence and 



154 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

self-respect never deserted him. He was employed once by 
Osborne to make a catalogue of the Harleian Library. Re- 
proved by his employer in an offensive manner for negligence, 
Johnson knocked him down with a huge Greek folio. 

275. Parliamentary Reports. — The year after his- arrival 
in London, we find him at work on the Gentleman's Maga- 
zine, a periodical of wide circulation. His most important 
contributions were his reports of the proceedings of Parlia- 
ment, which the publisher, as a measure of precaution, sent 
forth as " Reports of the Debates of the Senate of Lilliput." 
He was furnished with notes, generally meagre and inaccurate ; 
and on these as a basis it was his business to write the 
speeches. He did the work marvellously well. Alany years 
afterward one of Pitt's speeches was pronounced superior to 
anything in Demosthenes. Johnson replied, " I wrote that 
speech in a garret in Exeter Street." When his impartiality 
was once praised in a friendly company, he answered with 
charming frankness, " That is not quite true ; I saved appear- 
ances pretty well, but I took care that the Whig dogs should 
not have the best of.it." 

276. A Satire. — In 1738 appeared a poem entitled "Lon- 
don," an imitation of the third satire of Juvenal. It met with 
a favorable rece-ption ; and though it brought the author only 
ten guineas in money, it served to direct attention to him as 
a man of genius. It was published anonymously; but Pope 
declared on reading it that the author could not long remain 
concealed. Its general theme is found in the following lines, 
which were written doubtless with all the conviction of bitter 
experience : — 

" This mournful truth is everywhere confessed, 
Slow rises worth by poverty depressed ; 
But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold ; 
Where looks are merchandise and smiles are sold; 
Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implored, 
The groom retails the favors of his lord." 

277. A Biography. — Another work appearing in 1744 
added much to Johnson's reputation. One of his Grub Street 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 155 

acquaintances was Richard Savage, a man of noble birth but 
profligate life. In spite of an insolent manner, he was of 
agreeable companionship and wide experience. He had passed 
through great vicissitudes of fortune; and on his death, John- 
son wrote his life in a masterly manner. " No finer specimen 
of literary biography," says Macaulay, " existed in any lan- 
guage, living or dead." It had the effect of pretty well es- 
tablishing Johnson's fame. 

278. Dictionary. — In 1747 he was applied to by several 
eminent book-sellers to prepare a " Dictionary of the English 
Language." The remuneration agreed upon was fifteen hun- 
dred guineas. The plan was issued and addressed to Lord 
Chesterfield, the most polished man of his time. This dis- 
tinguished lord had at one time given the burly scholar en- 
couragement; but repelled at last by his boorishness of man- 
ner, he had politely shaken him off. 

After seven years of drudgery Johnson brought his work 
to a close. In hopes of having it dedicated to himself, Chester- 
field took occasion to recommend it in two letters published in 
the World, a periodical to which men of rank and fashion 
frequently contributed. The proud scholar was not to be ap- 
peased ; and his reply was terrific — " the far-famed blast of 
doom proclaiming into the ear of Lord Chesterfield," says 
Carlyle, " and through him of the listening world, that patron- 
age should be no more." 

Johnson defined a lexicographer as a " harmless drudge." 
This is fairly descriptive of the nature of his work, which con- 
sisted in collecting, defining, and illustrating all the words of the 
language. Judged by present high standards, the work is de- 
fective. Scientific etymology was not yet in existence. But it 
far surpassed anything before it and was received with en- 
thusiasm by the English people. 

279. "Vanity of Human Wishes." — Johnson's energies 
were not wholly expended on the drudgery of the " Dictionary." 
In 1749 he published another imitation of Juvenal, entitled the 
" Vanity of Human Wishes." It is written with much vigor, 
and in passages surpasses the original. The vanity of the 



156 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

warrior's pride is illustrated by Charles XII. of Sweden : — 

" He left a name at which the world grew pale 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale." 

To the ambitious scholar he says : — 

" Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, 
And pause awhile from letters to be wise ; 
There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, 
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. 
See nations, slowly wise, and meanly just, 
To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
If dreams 3^et flatter, once again attend, 
Hear Lydiat's life and Galileo's end." 

280. Drama of " Irene."— The poem brought him little 
besides a growing reputation. A few days after the publica- 
tion of the " Vanity of Human Wishes " his tragedy of 
" Irene " was brought upon the stage by Garrick. It was 
heard with respectful attention. After running nine nights, 
it was withdrawn, and has never since been acted. " When 
Johnson writes tragedy," said Garrick, " declamation roars and 
passion sleeps ; when Shakespeare wrote he dipped his pen in 
his own heart." Johnson took the failure of his tragedy with 
philosophical calmness. It brought him all together about 
three hundred pounds, in which no doubt he found substantial 
consolation. 

281. The Rambler. — In 1750 he began the publication of 
the Rambler, a periodical resembling the Spectator. It ap- 
peared twice a week for two years. The range of subjects 
is wide and interesting. The prevailing tone is serious and 
moral. Though coldly received at the time of first issue, yet 
afterward collected into volumes, the papers had an extra- 
ordinary circulation. No fewer than ten editions appeared 
during the author's life. 

His style is characterized by an artificial stateliness and a 
preponderance of Latin words. " I have labored," he says in 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 157 

the closing paper, " to refine our language to grammatical 
purity and to clear it from colloquial barbarisms, licentious 
idioms, and irregular combinations. Something, perhaps, I 
have added to the elegance of its construction and something 
to the harmony of its cadence." He lacked the delicate touch 
of Addison. Of his moral aim he says: "The essays pro- 
fessedly serious, if I have been able to execute my own inten- 
tions, will be found exactly conformable to the precepts of 
Christianity, without any accommodation to the licentiousness 
and levity of the present age." The Rambler is a delightful 
book with which to spend an occasional half hour. It is filled 
with sober wisdom, and some of the papers are singularly 
beautiful. 

282. " Rasselas." — In 1759 Johnson's mother died at Lich- 
field at the age of ninety. He was still involved in financial 
troubles. In order to gain money for her funeral expenses, he 
wrote in a single week the story of " Rasselas." It is his most 
popular work. Its main theme is announced in the opening 
sentence: "Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of 
fancy, and pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope ; who 
expect that age will perform the promises of youth, and that 
the deficiencies of the present day will be supplied by the mor- 
row : attend to the history of Rasselas, prince of Abyssinia." 
The story makes no pretensions to historical accuracy; the 
Abyssinians brought before us are in reality highly cultivated 
Europeans. But it is written with Johnson's peculiar eloquence 
and exhibits fully his moral and reflective temperament. 

283. Pension. — The year 1762 saw an important change 
in Johnson's condition. He received a pension of three hun- 
dred pounds a year. In his " Dictionary " he had defined a 
pension as " generally understood to mean pay given to a 
state hireling for treason to his country." Being assured 
that he did not come within the definition, and that the pension 
was accorded in recognition of past services, he accepted "it 
after some hesitation. It placed him for the first time in cir- 
cumstances of independence, and allowed him to indulge his 
constitutional indolence. He talked at night and slept during 



158 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

the day, rising at two in the afternoon. " I cannot now curse 
the House of Hanover," he said in appreciative reference to 
his pension; " but I think that the pleasure of cursing the 
House of Hanover and drinking King James's Health, all amply 
overbalanced by three hundred pounds a year." 

284. Dominant in the Club.— No longer driven by "neces- 
sity, his pen became less busy. His principal influence was 
exerted through conversation. His colloquial powers were 
of the highest order. In the Club, which included, among 
others, Goldsmith, Burke, Reynolds, and Garrick, he was 
easily first. The opinion of the Club carried great weight; 
and for a time his position might be described as literary 
dictator of England. Meeting the king one day in the royal 
library, he was asked by his Majesty if he intended to give the 
world any more of his compositions. " I think I have written 
enough," said Johnson. " And I should think so too," re- 
plied his Majesty, "if you had not written so well" — a com- 
pliment of which Johnson was very proud. 

2 &5- " Journey to the Hebrides."- — In 1773 Johnson made 
a journey to the Hebrides. He was kindly received on his 1 
journey through Scotland. His prejudices against the Scotch 
were softened to a harmless foible. He made inquiries con- 
cerning the poems of Ossian. He denounced Macpherson's 
work as a forgery. Receiving a furious and threatening letter 
from the author of " Ossian," Johnson replied : " I hope 
I shall never be deterred from detecting what I think a cheat 
by the menaces of a ruffian." In anticipation of personal vio- 
lence, he provided himself with a heavy stick, of which, had 
occasion offered, he would doubtless have made vigorous use. 

The results of this trip are given in a pleasant volume en- 
titled " Journey to the Hebrides." The style is, as usual, 
elaborate and stately. Writing to an intimate friend from the 
Hebrides, he says with colloquial ease and pith, " When we 
were taken upstairs, a dirty fellow bounced out of the bed 
on which one of us was to lie." In the book this incident is 
translated into his artificial literary style as follows : " Out of 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 159 

one of the beds on which we were to repose, started up, at our 
entrance, a man black as a Cyclops from the forge." 

286. "Lives of the Poets." — In 1777 a number of Lon- 
don booksellers decided to publish a collection of English poetry. 
Johnson was asked to prepare the introductory biographical 
and critical sketches. The result was his " Lives of the Poets," 
the work, perhaps, by which he will be longest known. In the 
judgment of Macaulay it is more interesting than any novel. 
In many respects it is an admirable production. Without much 
patient research after biographical material, it gives the lead- 
ing facts in the life of each poet, together with a masterly 
analysis of his character and a critical examination of his 
works. It is less ponderous in style than his earlier writings. 
That it is independent in judgment goes without saying. His 
criticisms, always worth attention, are not always just. He was 
sometimes influenced by his prejudices, as in the case of Milton 
and Gray; and he attached too much importance to the logical 
and didactic elements of poetry. He had no ear for the music 
of poetry; and that subtle, ethereal quality, which raises it 
above prose, could not be grasped by his clumsy critical prin- 
ciples. 

287. Various Incidents.- — Much of interest in Johnson's 
life is necessarily omitted : the strange crowd of dependents 
he maintained at his home; his relation with the Thrales ; a 
great store of interesting anecdote preserved to us by his satel- 
lite Boswell. Though for a time oppressed with a dread of 
death, he met it, as the end drew near, with manly courage. In 
his last sickness he was visited by many of his old friends. 
" I am afraid," said Burke, " that so many of us must be oppres- 
sive to you."- — " No, sir, it is not so," replied Johnson ; " and I 
must be in a wretched state indeed when your company would 
not be a delight to me." — " You have always been too good to 
me," said Burke, with a breaking voice, as he parted from his 
old friend for the last time. Now and then there was a flash 
of the old vigor and humor. Describing a man who sat up 
with him, he said: " Sir, the fellow's an idiot; he's as awkward 
as a turnspit when first put into the wheel, and as sleepy as a 
dormouse." His last words were a benediction. A young lady 



160 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

begged his blessing. " God bless you, my dear," he said with 
infinite tenderness. Nothing could have been more charac- 
teristic of his great, benevolent heart. He peacefully died Dec. 
13, 1784. He had once playfully said to Goldsmith, when visit- 
ing the Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey, 

" Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis." 1 

The prediction and the wish were fulfilled. And among 
the wise and great who repose there, there is no one whose 
massive intellect, honest worth, and great heart command our 
admiration and love in a higher degree than Samuel Johnson. 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Boswell, " Life of Johnson/' Stephen, " Life of Johnson," (Eng- 
lish Men of Letters), Grant, " Samuel Johnson," (Great Writers 
Series), Carlyle, " Boswell's Life of Johnson," Miacaulay, "Essay 
on Johnson." 

The story of the drama of " Irene." Justify Garrick's criticism, 
mentioned in the preceding sketch, by illustrative quotations. A 
comparison of "London" with the third satire of Juvenal (Bohn). 
A review of the " Vanity of Human Wishes." Traces of John- 
son's prejudice in the sketches of Milton and Gray, "Lives of the 
Poets." Make a collection of proverbial sayings from the " Lives 
of the Poets." The story of Rasselas. A study of " The Voyage 
of Life," Rambler , No. 102. " The Garden of Hope, a Dream," 
Rambler, No. 67. A comparative study of the style of Johnson and 
that of Addison, " Painter's Guide to Literary Criticism," Part II. 

The "Letter to the Earl of Chesterfield" and "The Journey of 
Life," one of the essays of The Rambler, will be found among the 
selections in Part II. 

1 Perhaps our names will be mingled with them. 




Engraved in mezzotint by Joseph Marehi after the painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds, London. 
Published, 1770. 



#€cr^ ySjKU^l 



AGE OF JOHNSON. 161 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

288. Genius and Folly. — A strange combination of weak- 
ness and strength, of genius and folly. " Inspired idiot " is the 
terrific phrase with which Horace Walpole once described him. 
It is a gross caricature indeed, but having truth enough at bot- 
tom to be perpetuated. Goldsmith belonged to a literary club, 
the members of which occasionally dined together. Goldsmith 
was usually one of the last to arrive. While waiting for him 
one day, the company playfully composed a number of epitaphs 
on " the late Mr. Goldsmith." The epitaph by Garrick, the cele- 
brated actor, has been preserved as a happy hit : — 

"Here lies poet Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, 
Who wrote like an angel and talked like poor Poll." 

289. Gift of Blundering.- — There are other anecdotes il- 
lustrating Goldsmith's awkwardness in conversation. He great- 
ly lacked self-confidence and had a faculty for blundering. 
His friends sometimes took advantage of his weaknesses and 
for amusement tricked him into saying and doing absurd things. 
He has suffered also from thick-headed critics, who have some- 
times misunderstood his delicate humor. Boswell, who was 
no friendly critic, but who reported facts truthfully, says : " It 
has been generally circulated and believed that Goldsmith was 
a mere fool in conversation ; but in truth, this has been greatly 
exaggerated." In spite of his deficiencies, he sometimes got the 
better of Dr. Johnson, the clearest and strongest talker of his 
time. Talking of fables once, Goldsmith remarked that the 
animals introduced seldom talked in character. " For instance," 
he said, " take the fable of the little fishes who saw birds fly 
over their heads, and envying them, petitioned Jupiter to be 
changed into birds. The skill consists in making them talk like 
little fishes." Dr. Johnson took exception to the remark. " Ah, 



162 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Doctor," he replied, ■" this is not so easy as you may think; for 
if you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like 
whales." 

290. Childhood Home.— But we turn to his life. Scarcely 
any other English author has put into his writings so much 
of his character and experience. Oliver Goldsmith was born 
at Pallas in the county of Longford, Ireland, in 1728, the son 
of a Protestant clergyman. About two years later his father 
moved to the village of Lissoy in the county of Westmeath, 
where he enjoyed a better living. An unusual interest is con- 
nected with that home. The amiable piety, learned simplicity, 
and guileless wisdom of his father are portrayed in the im- 
mortal " Vicar of Wakefield." It was a fireside where a Chris- 
tian benevolence was inculcated and practiced. The memories 
of this home never left Goldsmith ; and years afterward, in his 
" Deserted Village," he gave a famous description of the " vil- 
lage preacher's modest mansion " : — 

" A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place." 

291. The Village School. — At the age of six years Gold- 
smith was sent to the village school taught by Thomas Byrne, 
an old soldier with a large stock of stories. Of him also we 
have a portrait in the " Deserted Village " : — 

" A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
I knew him well, and every truant knew : 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face. 
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 
Full well the busy whisper circling round, 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned." 

As a pupil he was dull — a stupid blockhead he was thought 
to be; but his amiability and thoughtless generosity, which 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 163 

characterized him all through life, made him popular with his 
schoolmates. 

292. At College. — In his seventeenth year Goldsmith en- 
tered Trinity College, Dublin, as a sizar. This relation was 
naturally repugnant to his timid and sensitive nature. His tutor 
was ill-tempered and harsh; some studies, especially mathe- 
matics and logic, were distasteful to him. His social nature be- 
trayed him into a neglect of his studies, and his love of fun 
got him into trouble. Having once gained a prize of thirty shil- 
lings, he gave a dance at his room to some young men and 
women of the city. This was a violation of the college rules ; 
and his tutor, attracted by the sound of the riddle, rushed to the 
scene of festivity, gave Goldsmith a thrashing, and turned his 
guests out of doors. 

293. Desultory Life. — In due course he took his bach- 
elor's degree and returned to his home. It had been sadly 
changed by the death of his father. The next two or three 
years were spent in a desultory way ; while ostensibly preparing 
to take orders, he was in reality spending his time in miscellan- 
eous reading and rustic convivialities. He did not like the 
clerical profession. " To be obliged to wear a long wig when 
I liked a short one," he says in explanation of his antipathy, 
"or a black coat when I generally dressed in brown, I thought 
such a restraint upon my liberty that I absolutely rejected 
the proposal." 

His fondness for gay dress was a weakness throughout his 
life and more than once exposed him to ridicule. When the 
time for his examination came, he appeared before the Bishop 
of Elphin arrayed in scarlet breeches. This silly breach of 
propriety cost him the good opinion of the bishop and led to his 
rejection. 

294. A Series of Failures. — Then followed a succession of 
undertakings and failures without parallel. He became tutor 
in a good family and lost his position on account of a quarrel 
at cards. He then resolved to emigrate to America and left for 
Dublin mounted on a good horse and having thirty guineas in 
his pocket. In six weeks he returned to his mother's door in 
a condition not unlike that of the prodigal son. Every penny 



164 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

was gone. He explained that the ship on which he had en- 
gaged passage had sailed while he was at a party of pleasure. 
The ship had been waiting for a favorable wind ; " and you 
know, mother," he said, " that I could not command the ele- 
ments." 

295. Law and Medicine. — His uncle Contarine, who was 
one of the few that had not lost all confidence in him, gave 
him fifty pounds with which to go to London for the purpose 
of studying law. He reached Dublin on his way; but unfor- 
tunately he met an old acquaintance, who allured him into a 
gambling house. He came out penniless. 

He was next advised to try medicine ; and a small purse hav- 
ing been made up for him, he set out for Edinburgh. He re- 
mained there eighteen months, during which he picked up a 
little medical science. But most of his time was spent in con- 
vivial habits. With gaming, feasting, and reckless generosity, 
he was often brought into financial difficulties. 

296. On the Continent. — Then he went to Leyden, os- 
tensibly for the purpose of completing his medical studies, 
but really, there is reason to believe, for the purpose of gratify- 
ing his roving disposition. He spent a year in that city with 
his usual improvidence. A friend provided him with money 
to go to Paris. The mania for tulip culture still prevailed in 
Holland. One day, wandering through a garden, Goldsmith 
suddenly recollected that his uncle Contarine, his steadfast 
benefactor, was a tulip fancier. Here, then, was an opportun- 
ity to show his appreciation. A number of choice and cost- 
ly bulbs were purchased; -and not till after he had paid for 
them did he reflect that he had spent all the- money designed for 
his travelling expenses. In this extremity he set out on foot 
with his flute. " I had some knowledge of music," says the 
Philosophic Vagabond in the " Vicar of Wakefield," " with a 
tolerable voice; I now turned what was once my amusement 
into a present means of subsistence. I passed among the harm- 
less peasants of Flanders and among such of the French as 
were poor enough to be merry ; for I ever found them sprightly 
in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a peas- 
ant's house, I played one of my merriest tunes, and that pro- 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 165 

cured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day." 
In this way he was able to make the tour of Europe, visiting 
Flanders, France, Switzerland, Germany, and Italy. At Padua 
he is said to have taken his medical degree. These travels, as 
we shall see, were afterward to be turned to good account. 

297. Return to England. — In 1756 he returned to Eng- 
land. " You may easily imagine," he wrote to a friend after- 
ward, " what difficulties I had to encounter, left as I was with- 
out friends, recommendations, money, or impudence, and that 
in a country where being an Irishman was sufficient to keep me 
unemployed. Many in such circumstances would have had re- 
course to a friar's cord or the suicide's halter. But, with all my 
follies, I had principle to resist the one and resolution to combat 
the other." 

He went to London, where for the next several years he 
led an existence miserable enough. He became successively an 
usher in a school, an apothecary's assistant, a practicing physi- 
cian — and failed in them all. At last, after other unlucky ven- 
tures, he settled down to the drudgery of a literary hack. 
From this humiliating station he was lifted by the force of 
genius alone. 

298. Literary Success. — He began by writing for reviews 
and magazines, and compiling easy histories. His first serious 
undertaking was " An Inquiry into the State of Learning in 
Europe," with which his career as an author may be said to 
begin. His work gradually gained recognition and brought him 
better pay. His circle of acquaintance widened and included 
the most distinguished literary talent of his time. Burke had 
discovered his genius; Percy, afterward Bishop of Dromore, 
sought him out in his garret ; and most important of all, John- 
son, the great Cham, as he has been humorously styled, sought 
his acquaintance. He had met Reynolds and Hogarth. In 
1763 he became one of the original nine members of the Club, 
which included among others Johnson, Reynolds, and Burke, 
and to which were added subsequently Garrick and Boswell. 
He was thus brought into intimate fellowship with the choicest 
minds of the English metropolis. 

Having attracted their notice by the humor, grace, and pic- 



1 66 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

turesqueness of his style in writing, he won their affection by 
the guilelessness and amiability of his character. There was a 
charm in his personality that triumphed over his weaknesses and 
drew the strongest and best men to him in tender friendship. 
That same charm exists in his works ; and with the possible 
exception of Addison, he is, what Thackeray claims for him, 
" the most beloved of English writers." 

299. Improvidence.- — The lesson of economy he never 
learned. His growing income had enabled him to take better 
lodgings. But in 1764 we find him in arrears for his board and 
in the hands of the sheriff. He sent for Johnson. " I sent 
him a guinea," says Johnson, " and promised to come to him 
directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was dressed and 
found that his landlady had arrested him for rent, at which he 
was in a violent passion. I perceived that he had already 
changed my guinea and got a bottle of Madeira and a glass 
before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would 
be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he 
might be extricated. He then told me that he had a novel 
ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it 
and saw its merit ; told the landlady I should return soon ; and 
having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought 
Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without 
rating his landlady in a high tone for having treated him so 
ill." But speedily relenting, he called her to share in a bowl 
of punch. 

300. " The Vicar of Wakefield." — The novel in question 
was no other than the " Vicar of Wakefield " — " one of the 
most delicious morsels of fictitious composition," justly observes 
Sir Walter Scott, " on which the human mind was ever em- 
ployed." The plot is indeed faulty; but the charm of the char- 
acters, the ludicrousness of the situations, the grace of style, and 
the delicacy of humor make it a book which we read with de- 
light in youth and return to with pleasure in maturity and old 
age. Notwithstanding its high rank as a work of genius, the 
stupid publisher kept it in hand two years before venturing 
to give it to the public. 

301. "The Traveller." — In 1764, while the "Vicar of 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 167 

Wakefield " was being held by the publisher, Goldsmith pub- 
lished a poem called " The Traveller." It was the first work 
to which he attached his name. The time was favorable for its 
appearance, inasmuch as the British Muse was doing but little. 
Johnson kindly lent his assistance in bringing it out, reading 
over the proof-sheets, and adding here and there a line. The 
merits of the poem were soon recognized, and the general 
opinion agreed that nothing better had appeared since the 
time of Pope. Goldsmith dedicated it to his brother : — 

" Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain." 

302. First Comedy. — Goldsmith continued to. do hack writ- 
ing for the booksellers, but did not neglect original com- 
position. In 1768 appeared his comedy of " The Good-Natured 
Man." It was refused by Garrick, notwithstanding the inter- 
cession of Reynolds, and was brought out at Covent Garden. 
It did not gain the applause it merited, but as a financial ven- 
ture it was a success. It was acted for nine nights ; and, in- 
cluding the copyright, it brought the author no less than five 
hundred pounds. That was a dangerous sum for a man of his 
improvident habits. He at once rented elegant lodgings, at 
a cost of four hundred pounds, and gave dinners to Johnson, 
Reynolds, and other friends of note. His chambers were often 
the scene of gay festivities ; and Blackstone, who occupied 
rooms immediately below, and was engaged on his " Com- 
mentaries," used to complain of the racket overhead. At this 
rate his means were, of course, soon exhausted. 

303. Hack Work. — His labors for the booksellers in- 
cluded his " Animated Nature," " History of Rome," " History 
of England," and " History of Greece." These compilations 
were hardly worthy of his genius, but they brought him the 
means of livelihood. " I cannot afford to court the draggle-tail 
muses," he once said ; " they would let me starve ; but by my 
other labors I can make shift to eat, and drink, and have 
good clothes." But even his compilations bore the trace of his 



1 68 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

genius in the clear arrangement of facts and in his felicitous 
mode of treatment. " Whether, indeed, we take him as a poet, 
as a comic writer, or as an historian," declared Johnson, " he 
stands in the first class." 

304. "The Deserted Village." — In 1770 appeared the 
" Deserted Village." In this he cast glory around his native 
village, to which, as he approached the end of his life, his mind 
reverted with peculiar tenderness. The political economy pre- 
sented is indeed false, but the pictures the poem brings before 
us are as enduring as the language. Every one is acquainted 
with Paddy Byrne : — 

" In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill ; 
For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still." 

And then the village preacher — a portrait of Goldsmith's 
father and his brother Henry. It is one of the most delightful 
descriptions in the English language, rivalled alone by Chaucer's 
parson : — 

" And as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way." 

The poem was at once successful and has since retained, 
through all changes of tas,te, its place as a classic. 

305. " She Stoops to Conquer." — In 1773 he gave his 
comedy, " She Stoops to Conquer," to the public. The plot 
turns on an incident suggested by a blunder as a schoolboy. 
The theatrical manager predicted a complete failure, and Gold- 
smith was in great distress. But the night of the first presenta- 
tion the theatre was filled; and the humorous dialogue and the 
ridiculous incidents kept the audience in a roar of laughter. 
It has since retained its place on the stage. 

During the last years of his life Goldsmith's income was 
about four hundred pounds a year. With a little economy 
this would have enabled him to live in comfort and ease. But 
his extravagance and heedless benevolence left him in debt. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 169 

306. Thackeray's Estimate. — The end came April 3, 
1784. When the news was brought to Burke, he burst into 
tears. Sir Joshua Reynolds laid aside his pencil. But more 
significant than all was the lamentation of the old and the infirm 
on his stairs — -helpless creatures to whose supplications he had 
never turned a deaf ear. Johnson wrote his epitaph, in which 
it is said that he " left scarcely any style of writing untouched, 
and touched nothing that he did .not adorn." In the words of 
Thackeray : " Think of him reckless, thriftless, vain if you like 
— but merciful, gentle, generous, full of love and pity. He 
passes out of our life and goes to render his account beyond 
it. Think of the poor pensioners weeping at his grave; think 
of the noble spirits that admired and deplored him ; think of the 
righteous pen that wrote his epitaph — and the wonderful and 
unanimous response of affection with which the world has paid 
back the love he gave it. His humor delighting us still; his 
song fresh and beautiful as when he first charmed with it: his 
words in all our mouths; his very weaknesses beloved and fa- 
miliar — his benevolent spirit seems still to smile upon us; to do 
gentle kindnesses ; to succor with sweet charity ; to caress, to 
soothe, and forgive ; to plead with the fortunate for the unhappy 
and the poor." 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Forster, " Life and Times of Goldsmith," Irving, " Life of Gold- 
smith," Black, "Life of Goldsmith" (English Men of Letters), 
Dobson, "Life of Goldsmith' (Great Writers series), Macaulay, 
" Oliver Goldsmith," Thackeray, " English Humorists," Channing, 
North American Review, 45 :qi. 

Autobiographic elements in " The Traveller," Painter's "Guide 
to Literary Criticism," Part I. The romantic elements in " The 
Deserted Village." A comparison of " The Village Preacher " 
with Chaucer's " Poor Parson." A comparative study of the nature 
scenes in " The Deserted Village " and Pope's " Windsor Forest." 
The story of " She Stoops to Conquer." A study of the Philo- 
sophic Vagabond in the " Vicar of Wakefield." Illustrations of 



170 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Goldsmith's humor from the same work. A comparison of the 
style of the " Vicar of Wakefield " and that of " Rasselas," Paint- 
er's " Guide to Literary Criticism." 

"The Deserted Village" is given among the selections of 
Part II. 




f\0o(^ fyA^r\J 



AGE OF JOHNSON. 171 



ROBERT BURNS. 

307. Poetic Genius. — The greatest poet of Scotland and 
the best song writer of the world — such is but a moderate 
estimate of Burns. Scarcely any one will be found to claim 
less, and some to claim more. A careful study of his writings, 
in connection with the unfavorable circumstances of his life, 
impresses us with his extraordinary genius. He was the great- 
est poetic genius produced by Great Britain in the eighteenth 
century. A peculiar interest attaches to him. His great nat- 
ural gifts were hampered by poverty and manual toil, and en- 
slaved by evil habits, so that he accomplished only a small part 
of what was possible for him. 

308. A Tragic Life. — His life was a tragedy — a proud 
and powerful mind overcome at length in the hard struggle of 
life. The catastrophe was unspeakably sad ; yet — let not our 
admiration of his gifts blind our judgment — Burns himself, 
and not an unkind destiny, was chiefly to blame. Genius has 
no exemption from the ordinary rules of morality. If he had 
abstained from drunken carousals and illicit amours, his life 
might have been crowned with beauty and honor. No doubt, 
as is often charitably said, he had strong passions and severe 
temptations ; but these he ought to have resisted ; for, as Carlyle 
says, " Nature fashions no creature without implanting in it the 
strength needful for its action and duration ; least of all does 
she so neglect her masterpiece and darling, the poetic soul." 

309. Youthful Years. — Robert Burns was born in a clay- 
built cottage two miles from the town of Ayr in 1759. His 
father was a man of strict integrity and deep piety. We have 
an imperishable portrait of him in " The Cotter's Saturday 
Night." His early years were spent on a small unfruitful 
farm in poverty and toil. His strength was overtaxed, his 
shoulders became stooped, and his nervous system was weak- 



i;2 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ened. lie afterward spoke of this period as combining " the 
cheerless gloom of a hermit with the unceasing moil of a galley 
slave." 

Yet this hardship was not without some relief. His humble 
home was sweetened with kindness and love ; and the future 
poet was taught, first in school and afterward by his father, the 
elements of learning. His mind was enlarged, and his taste 
refined by works of the highest merit. His early reading in- 
cluded the Spectator, Shakespeare, Pope, and Locke's " Human 
Understanding." 

310. Love's Spell. — In his fifteenth year his genius was 
awakened under the sweet spell of love. " You know," he says, 
" our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as 
partners in the labors of harvest. In my fifteenth summer my 
partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. 
My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her jus- 
tice in that language ; but you know the Scottish idiom. She 
was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she, altogether un- 
wittingly to herself, initiated me into that delicious passion 
which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and 
bookworm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys here 
below." The first offspring of. his muse was entitled " Hand- 
some Nell," which, though he afterward spoke of it as puerile, 
still contains a touch of that charming simplicity of thought and 
expression which characterizes so much of his poetry. Is not 
this stanza delightful ? — 

" She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 
Baith decent and genteel, 
And then there's something in her gait 
Gars * ony dress look weel." 

311. Cupid's Captive. — At the age of nineteen he went to 
Kirkoswald to study mensuration and surveying. It turned 
out to be a bad move. The town was frequented by smugglers 
and adventurers ; and Burns was introduced into scenes of what 
he calls " swaggering riot and roaring dissipation." He worked 



ROBERT BURN, 173 

at his mensuration with sufficient diligence ti 1 l he one day met 
a pretty lass and fell in love. The current of his thought was 
turned from mathematics to poetry, and this change put an end 
to his studies. Love-making now became a common business 
with him. He composed a song on every pretty girl he knew. 
The most beautiful of the songs of this period is his " Mary 
Morison," which was inspired by a real affection : — 

" Yestreen, when to the trembling string, 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha'. 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw : 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd and said amang them a', 

Ye are na Mary Morison." 

312. A Great Ambition. — In spite of his sweet love songs 
his suit was rejected — an incident that long cast a shadow 
over his inner life. He was a great reader. He possessed a 
" Collection of English Songs ; " and this, he says, " was my 
vade-mecum. I pored over them driving my cart, or walking to 
labor, song by song, verse by verse ; carefully noticing the true, 
tender, or sublime, from affectation or fustian; and I am con- 
vinced I owe to this practice much of my critic craft, such as 
it is." A consciousness of his strength began to dawn upon 
him and to fill his mind with a great ambition. Amidst his 
varied labors on the farm, as a beardless boy, he felt — 

" E'en then a wish, I mind its power, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast : 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some useful plan or book could make, 

Or sing a sang at least." 

313. Downward Course. — In the summer of 1781 he went 
to Irvine to learn the flax-dressing business in the hope of in- 
creasing thereby the profits of farming. It turned out to be a 



174 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

disastrous undertaking. As at Kirkoswald, he fell into the 
company of smugglers and adventurers, by whom he was en- 
couraged in loose opinions and bad habits. With the unsettling 
of his religious convictions, he overleaped the restraints that 
had hitherto kept him in the path of virtue. 

His flax-dressing came to an abrupt close. He was robbed 
by his partner, and his shop took fire at a New Year's carousal 
and was burnt to the ground. Dispirited and tormented with 
an evil conscience, he returned to his home, which was soon to 
be overshadowed by the death of his father. " Whoever lives 
to see it," the old man had said, " something extraordinary will 
come from that boy." But he went to the grave sorely troubled 
with apprehensions about the future of his gifted son. 

314. Efforts to -Reform. — Burns now made an effort to 
reform. In his own words, " I read farming books, I cal- 
culated crops, I attended markets, and, in short, in spite of the 
devil, the world, and the flesh, I should have been a wise man; 
but the first year from unfortunately buying bad seed, the sec- 
ond, from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. This overset 
all my wisdom ; and I returned like the dog to his vomit, and 
the sow that was washed to her wallowing in the mire." He 
came under ecclesiastical discipline for immorality and revenged 
himself by lashing the minister and church officers with keen 
and merciless satire. His series of religious satires, in spite of 
all their inimitable brilliancy of wit, reflects little credit either 
on his judgment or his character. While his harvests were fail- 
ing, and his business interests were all going against him, he 
found solace in rhyme. As he says : — 

" Leeze me 1 on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, at leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough and raplock 2 be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy." 

1 I am happy in rhyme. 

2 Coarse. 



ROBERT BURNS. 175 

315. Poetic Activity. — The year 1785, while he was la- 
boring with his brother on a farm at Mossgiel, saw the greatest 
activity of his muse. It was at that time that he composed 
" To a Mouse," " The Cotter's Saturday Night,'' " Address to 
the Deil," " Man Was Made to Mourn," and " The Mountain 
Daisy," which established his fame on a lasting foundation. 
They were composed behind the plough and afterward written 
in a little farmhouse garret. " Thither," says Chambers, " when 
he had returned from his day's work, the poet used to retire 
and seat himself at a small deal table, lighted by a narrow sky- 
light in the roof, to transcribe the verses which he had com- 
posed in the fields. His favorite time for composition was at 
the plough." 

316. First Volume.— While meditating emigration to Ja- 
maica, he published his first volume of poems in 1786. The 
result altered all his plans. The volume took Scotland by 
storm. " Old and young," says a contemporary, " high and low, 
grave and gay, learned and ignorant, were alike delighted, agi- 
tated, transported. I was at that time resident in Galloway, 
contiguous to Ayrshire, and I can well remember how even 
plough-boys and maid-servants would have gladly bestowed the 
wages they earned most hardly, and which they wanted to pur- 
chase necessary clothing, if they might procure the works of 
Burns." 

As a financial venture, the volume brought him only twenty 
pounds; but what was of more importance, it retained him in 
his native country and introduced him to the noble and the 
learned of Edinburgh. He has left a humorous account of the 
first time he met a nobleman socially, and " dinner'd wi' a 
Lord " : — 

" But wi' a Lord ! stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer, an Earl's son ! 

Up higher yet my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord ! lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er a sonnet." 



176 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

317. In Edinburgh. — In November, 1786, Burns deemed it 
wise to visit the Scottish metropolis. His journey thither on 
horseback was a continued ovation. He occupied very humble 
quarters, lodging in a small room costing three shillings a week. 
From this lowly abode he went forth into the best society of 
Edinburgh, to which his genius gained him ready admission. 
He was the social lion of the day. 

The Scottish capital was noted at this time for the literary 
talent gathered there. In the most polished drawing-rooms of 
the city Burns met Dugald Stewart, William Robertson, Adam 
Smith, Hugh Blair, and others of scarcely less celebrity. He 
did not suffer from this contact with the ablest men of his 
country. Indeed, it has been said by one who knew him well 
that poetry was not his forte. His brilliant conversation — his 
vigorous thought, sparkling wit, and trenchant style — some- 
times eclipsed his poetry. 

318. Independence. — His manner was open and manly, a 
consciousness of native strength preserving him from all ser- 
vility. He showed, as Lockhart says, " in the strain of his 
bearing his belief that in the society of the most eminent men 
of his nation he was where he was entitled to be, hardly deign- 
ing to flatter them by exhibiting a symptom of being flattered." 
He was especially pleasing to ladies, " fairly carrying them off 
their feet," as or ; r : them said, " by his deference of manner 
and the mingled humor and pathos of his talk." 

He cherished a proud feeling of independence. He em- 
phasized individual worth and looked with contempt on what 
may be regarded as the mere accidents of birth or fortune. To 
this feeling, which finds a response in every noble breast, he 
gave expression in his song, " A Man's a Man for a' That," 
which mightily voiced the democratic spirit of the age : — 

" Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that? 
The coward slave, we pass him by; 
We dare be puir for a' that. 

" For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure and a' that, 



ROBERT BURNS. 177 

The rank is but the guinea-stamp — 
The man's the gowd 1 for a' that." 

319. Exciseman and Farmer. — Before leaving the city 
he received an appointment in the Excise. He had hoped for 
something better. But he wrote to a friend : " The question 
is not at what door of fortune's palace we shall enter in, but 
what door does she open for us." He also leased a farm at 
Ellisland, which he had long set his heart on. 

His farm proved a failure. His duties as exciseman, besides 
leading him into bad company, prevented that strict super- 
vision of farm work which was necessary to success. He 
suffered much from depression of spirits, to which the recollec- 
tions of a wayward life contributed no small part. " Alas ! " 
he writes, "who would wish for many years? What is it but 
to drag existence until our joys gradually expire, and leave us 
in a night of misery, like the gloom which blots out the stars, 
one by one from the face of heaven, and leaves us without a ray 
of comfort in the howling waste ? " 

320. Solace in Poetry. — He continued to find at intervals 
solace in poetry. One morning he heard the report of a gun 
and shortly after saw a poor wounded hare limping by. The 
condition of the little animal touched his heart and called forth 
the excellent poem " On Seeing a Wounded Hare Limp by Me," 
written in classic English : — 

" Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield." 

We meet with this tender sympathy with nature, and strong 
sense of fellowship with lower creatures, in many of his poems. 
It is one secret of their charm. In the poem " To a Mouse " 
is the following: — 

" I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 



178 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And justifies the ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion 

An' fellow-mortal ! " 

The cold blasts of a winter night remind him of — 

" Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing, 
That in the merry months o' spring 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee? 
Where wilt thou cower thy chittering wing, 

And close thy e'e? " 

321. "Highland Mary." — The choicest products of this 
sojourn at Ellisland are the immortal " Tale o' Tarn o' 
Shanter " and " To Mary in Heaven." The latter is a song of 
deep pathos. Years before he had loved his " Highland Mary " 
with a deep devotion. Their parting by the banks of Ayr — ■ 
which the untimely death of Mary made the last — was at- 
tended with vows of eternal constancy. Her memory never 
vanished from the poet's mind. On the anniversary of her 
death, in October, 1786, he grew sad and wandered about his 
farmyard the whole night in deep agitation of mind. As dawn 
approached he was persuaded by his wife to enter the house, 
when he sat down and wrote those pathetic lines, beginning : — 

" Thou lingering star with lessening ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usherest in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?" 

322. The Sublime of Life. — In 1791 Burns removed to 
Dumfries and gave his whole time to the duties of the Excise, 



ROBERT BURNS. 179 

for which he received seventy pounds a year. At Ellisland he 
had written : — 

" To make a happy fireside clime, 
For weans and wife, 
Is the true pathos and sublime 
Of human life." 

Unfortunately he did not live as wisely as he sang. His 
spirit became soured toward those more favored by fortune. 
His nights were frequently spent at the tavern with drinking 
cronies. His life is summed up in one cf his letters: " Hurry 
of business, grinding the faces of the publican and the sinner 
on the merciless wheels of the Excise, making ballads, and 
then drinking and singing them; and, over and above all, cor- 
recting the press of two different publications." 

323. Sympathy with France. — Burns strongly sympa- 
thized with the revolutionary movement in France; and to this 
feeling no less than to his Scottish patriotism, if we may believe 
his own account, we owe the thrilling lines of " Bruce's Ad- 
dress," which Carlyle says " should be sung with the throat of 
the whirlwind." The excellence of this poem has been ques- 
tioned by Wordsworth and others; but let the following lines 
be read with something of the heroic fervor with which they 
were composed, and all doubts will be set at rest : — 

"Wha will be a traitor knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha so base as be a slave? 
Let him turn and flee." 

324. Closing Days. — The end was drawing near. The 
irregularities of his life had undermined his strong constitu- 
tion. He was often serious. " I find that a man may live like 
a fool," he said to his friend, " but he will scarcely die like one." 
In April, 1796, he wrote: "Alas, my dear Thompson, I fear 
it will be some time before I tune my lyre again ! By Babel 
streams I have sat and wept, almost ever since I wrote you 
last; I have known existence only by pressure of the heavy hand 
of sickness and have counted time by the repercussions of pain ! 



i8o ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Rheumatism, cold, and fever have formed to me a terrible com- 
bination. I close my eyes in misery and open them without 
hope. • I look on the vernal day, and say, with poor Ferguson, — 

" ' Say wherefore has an all-indulgent heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given?'" 

325. Death. — The 21st of July, 1796, with his children 
around his bed, the great poet of Scotland passed away. Let 
our final judgment of him as a man be tempered by the gentle 
spirit he commends in the "Address to the Unco Guid " : — 

" Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin 1 wrang, 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it ; 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

" Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us; 
He knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring — its various bias; 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted." 

326. Devoutness at Heart. — As a poet Burns felt deeply 
and then poured forth his song because he could not otherwise 
find peace. He could not endure affectation, rant, hypocrisy. 
At heart devout before the great Author and Preserver of all 
things, he yet rebelled against some of the hard features religion 
had assumed. In his " Epistle to a Young Friend," his real 
feelings are indicated : — 



ROBERT BURNS. 181 

" The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended. 

" When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or, if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded; 
But when on life we're tempest-driven, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fixed wi' Heaven, 

Is sure a noble anchor." 

327. Exquisite Sensibility. — More than any other man he 

saw the beauty of a sincere religious life, to a portrayal of 
which he devoted the best of his poems. His sensibilities were 
extraordinarily sensitive and strong. " There is scarcely any 
earthly object," he says, " gives me more — I do not know if 
I should call it pleasure — but something which exalts me, 
something which enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered 
side of a wood or high plantation in a cloudy winter day and 
hear the stormy wind howling among the trees and raving over 
the plain. ... I listened to the birds and frequently turned 
out of my path, lest I should disturb their little songs or frighten 
them to another station." With such a sensitive nature it is no 
wonder that we find contradictions in his poetry. The storm of 
emotion drives quickly from grave to gay, from high to low. 
He has written much that ought to be and will be forgotten. 
But upon the whole, his poetry is elevating in its tone — a 
treasure for which we ought to be thankful. It is the voice 
of a man who, with all his weakness and sin, was still, in his 
best moments, honest, manly, penetrating, and powerful. 



1 82 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Lockhart, " Life of Robert Burns," Chambers, " Life and Works 
of Robert Burns," Shairp, " Life of Burns " (English Men of 
Letters), Blackie, "Life of Robert Burns (Great Writers Series), 
Carlyle, " Essay on Burns." 

A critique of " Man was Made to Mourn." The new spirit of 
poetry, as related to nature and man, in Burns. An Outline of the 
" Tale of Tarn o' Shanter." A review of the " Epistle to a Young 
Friend." A critique of his " Address to the Deil " and " Address 
to the Unco' Guid." The significance of the poem " The Two 
Dogs." Burns's qualities as a song writer as illustrated in " Mary 
Morison," "To Mary in Heaven," "John Anderson, My Jo r " 
"Highland Mary," "Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon," "Flow 
Gently, Sweet Afton," and " O Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast. 5 * 
Scotch life as reflected in the poetry of Burns. 

"The Cotter's Saturday Night" "To a Mouse," and "To a 
Mountain Daisy" arc given among the selections of Part II. 



AGE OF SCOTT. 
PRINCIPAL WRITERS. 

Criticism. — Francis Jeffrey (1773-1850). Lawyer and critic, 
editor of the Edinburgh Review (J1802-1829), and brilliant writer 
on literature, politics, and ethics. (See text.) 

William Hazlitt (1778-1830). Critic and author of "Character 
of Shakespeare's t Plays" (1817), "A View of the English Stage" 
(1818), "Lectures on the English Poets" (1818), "Lectures on the 
English Comic Writers" (1819), "Lectures of the Elizabethan 
Age" (1821), "Table-Talk" (1824), "The Spirit of the Age" 
(1825). 

Charles Lamb (1775-1834). Critic and essayist. Author of 
"Rosamond Gray" (1798), "Tales from Shakespeare" (1805), and 
"Essays of Elia " (1822-1824). 

John Wilson (1785-1854). Critic and essayist, whose nom de 
plume was " Christopher North." Author of " Noctes Ambro- 
sianae," etc. 

John Gibson Lockhart (1 794-1 854). Critic, novelist, biographer; 
author of "Adam Blair" (1822), "Life of Burns" (1825)," Life of 
Scott" (1837), etc. 

Leigh Hunt (1784-1859). Author of "Juvenilia" (1802), 
"Classic Tales" (1807), "The Story of Rimini" (1816), etc. 

History. — Henry Hallam (1778-1859). Author of "Views of 
the State of Europe during the Middle Ages" (1818), "Constitu- 
tional History of England" (1827), and "Introduction to the Liter- 
ature of Europe in the Fifteenth, Sixteenth, and Seventeenth Cen- 
turies" (1838). (See Text). 

William Mitford (1744-1827). Author of a "History of Greece" 
(1784-1818), "History and Doctrine of Christianity" (1823), etc. 
(See Text). 

Female Novelists and Poets. — Ann Radcliffe (1764-1823). 
Novelist of Romantic School, and author of " The Romance of the 
Forest" (1791), "The Mysteries of Udolpho " (1794), and several 
others. (See Text). 

183 



1 84 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Maria Edgeworth (1767-1849). Novelist of Irish life; author of 
"Castle Rack-rent" (1801), "Moral Tales" (1801), "Tales of a 
Fashionable Life" (1811), etc. 

Jane Austen (1775-1817). Novelist of social life; author of 
"Sense and Sensibility" (1811), "Pride and Prejudice" (1812), 
" Emma " (1816), etc. 

Jane Porter (1 776-1850). Novelist of the Romantic type; author 
of " Thaddeus of Warsaw" (1803), "The Scottish Chiefs" (1810), 
etc. 

Anna Letitia Barbauld (1743-1825). Poet and prose writer; 
author of "Lessons for Children" (1808), etc. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1794-1835). Poet and author of "The 
Vespers of Palermo" (1823), a tragedy, "The Forest Sanctuary" 
(1827), "Songs of the Affections" (1830), etc. Several of her 
•shorter poems — " The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers," " The 
Homes of England," " The Hour of Death " — will always remain 
popular. 

Hannah More (1745-1833). Poet, novelist, dramatist, and moral 
essayist ; author of " Percy," a drama written for Garrick, which 
was acted with success in 1777, "Sacred Dramas" (1782), " Coelebs 
in Search of a Wife" (1809), "Character of St. Paul" (1815), 
"Moral Sketches" (1818), etc. 

Joanna Baillie (1762-1851). Poet and dramatist; author of 
"Plays of the Passions" (1812), etc. 

Poetry. — Thomas Campbell (1 777-1844). Author of "The 
Pleasures of Hope" (1799), "Poems" (1803), "Gertrude of Wy- 
oming" (1809). (See Text). 

John Keats (1795-1821). Author of "Poems" (1817), " Endy- 
mion " (1818), "Hyperion" (1820). (See Text). 

Robert Southey (1774-1843). Poet and historian; author of 
"Joan of Arc" (1796), " Thalaba, the Destroyer" (1801), "The 
Curse of Kehama " (1810), "A History of Brazil,' "Life of Nel- 
son," and a hundred other volumes. (See Text). 

Thomas Moore (1 779-1852). Poet and biographer; author of 
"Epistles" (1806), "Lalla Rookh " (1817), "Life of Byron" 
(1830), "Irish Melodies " (1834), etc. (See Text). 

Thomas Hood (1 798-1 845). Poet, editor, humorist; author of 
"Whims and Oddities" (1826), "Up the Rhine" (1839), a de- 



AGE OF SCOTT. 185 

lightful piece of humor, and editor of Hood's Magazine, and other 
periodicals. 

Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864). Poet and prose writer; au- 
thor of "Gebir" (1798), "Count Julian" (1812), "Imaginary Con- 
versations" (1824-1846), etc. 

John Keble (1792-1866). Poet, clergyman, and Oxford profes- 
sor; author of "The Christian Year" (1827), a series of poems 
for the Sundays and holidays of the church year. 

Samuel Rogers (1763-1855). Author of the "Pleasures of Mem- 
ory" (1792), "Columbus" (1812), "Human Life," etc. As a man 
of wealth he entertained many literary celebrities, his breakfasts 
being more famous than his poems. 

Percy Bysche Shelley (1 792-1822). A poet of rich gifts. Author 
of " Queen Mab," " Alastor," " The Revolt of Islam," " Prometheus 
Unbound," and several superb odes, among which are the " Ode 
to Liberty," "To a Skylark," and "The Cloud." (See Text). 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1 772-1834). A poet and philosopher 
of wide influence. His best known poem is " The Ancient Mari- 
ner " (1798). Author of the tragedy "Remorse" ('1813), " Bio- 
graphia Literaria " (1817), consisting of sketches of his literary life 
and opinions, and "Aids to Reflection" (1825). (See Text). 

GREAT REPRESENTATIVE WRITERS. 

Sir Walter Scott. William Wordsworth. 

Lord Byron. Thomas De Quincey. 



VII. 

AGE OF SCOTT. 
(1800 — 1832.) 

328. Favorable Conditions. — The political condition of 
England during this period was not unfavorable to literature. 
In 1800 the " Emerald Isle " was joined to England under the 
title of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. The 
Napoleonic wars increased England's prestige as a world-power. 
She came into possession of the colonies of Spain, of Holland, 
and of France. Waterloo finally ended her long struggle with 
the French. Her victories at Copenhagen and Trafalgar made 
her the undisputed mistress of the seas. The population largely 
increased. Agriculture became more flourishing, and the in- 
ventions of Watt and Arkwright helped to build up prosperous 
cities in northern England and to increase the national wealth. 
In 18 1 5 London was lighted with gas; and a few years later 
an effective police force was organized for the city, which 
had then reached a population of a million and a half. Though 
the transition from hand labor to machinery imposed great 
hardships on the working classes for a time, and thus created 
much social discontent and suffering, it laid the foundation of 
the subsequent supremacy of England as a manufacturing and 
commercial nation. 

329. Growth of Democratic Spirit. — Though the influ- 
ence of the government was generally against the democratic 
tendencies of the times, the new sense of human right and free- 
dom could not be extinguished. Though held in check for a 
time, it achieved later notable triumphs in Parliament. In 1828 
the Test Act, by which Dissenters and Roman Catholics were 
excluded from government office, was repealed, and the follow- 

187 



188 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ing year Roman Catholics were admitted to Parliament. In 
1832 the famous Reform Bill was passed, by which the " rotten 
boroughs " were abolished, the list of voters was increased by 
half a million, and the manufacturing cities of northern Eng- 
land — Birmingham, Manchester, and many others — were ac- 
corded representation. 

330. Literary Bloom. — It will be understood that the 
periods into which the history of any literature is divided are 
not sharply defined. They pass gradually from one into an- 
other under the operation of new influences. The age of Scott, 
a designation less descriptive than convenient, is characterized 
by the full development of the democratic and romantic tend- 
encies originating in the latter part of the preceding period. 
They reached their climax in the literary outburst that has been 
called, not without considerable justification, the " Second Crea- 
tive Period." A copious literature, new both in form and spirit, 
bloomed forth. Scott, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, 
De Quincey, and others were men of original and creative 
genius, and in a retrospect of the long vista of English litera- 
ture, they stand out with striking prominence. With an inade- 
quate apprehension of the tendencies of the age, three of these 
writers — Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey — have been 
designated the Lake School of Poets, from their residence in the 
northern part of England. 

331. Progressive and Conservative Tendencies. — The 
chief event that immediately affected literature, in the closing 
decade of the eighteenth and the first third of the nineteenth 
century, was the French Revolution. It not only crystallized 
the floating thought and feeling of France, but it brought home 
to the English heart the vague democratic movement of the 
time. The rights of man, as distinguished from the privileges 
of class or caste, became the subject of earnest and enthusiastic 
examination. The literary men of England generally arrayed 
themselves, consciously or unconsciously, on the side of prog- 
ress or of conservatism. Dreams of a golden age of right and 
happiness took hold of men like Wordsworth, Coleridge, and 
Southey ; and for a time, as we shall see, they contemplated 
founding an ideal democracy, or Pantisocracy, beyond the sea. 



AGE OF SCOTT. 189 

On the other hand, Scott, in whom the romantic movement 
reached its climax, turned away from the turmoil of dissension 
and conflict to write, in prose and poetry, of a chivalrous past. 
Byron satirized the social conditions about him; and Shelley, 
with a spirit still more radical and violent, sought to overturn 
the most sacred beliefs and institutions. 

332. Intellectual Advancement. — This period was one of 
rapidly growing intelligence. Through the labors of Andrew 
Bell and Joseph Lancaster, a new impulse was given to popular 
education, and hundreds of schools were founded. In 18 18 the 
government manifested its interest in education by appointing 
a committee to inspect the public schools. Periodicals were 
multiplied ; and very significant for literature was the found- 
ing of the great magazines and reviews, which became the 
vehicles, not only of vigorous criticism, but also of excellent 
miscellaneous productions. They gathered about them groups 
of gifted writers and elevated the taste of the reading public. 
The Edinburgh Review was founded in 1802, the London Quar- 
terly, its' political opponent, in 1809, Blackwood's Magazine in 
1817, the Westminster Reviezv in 1824, and Eraser's Magazine 
in 1830. Two weekly papers of high order, the Spectator and 
the Athenceum, both of which figure in later literature, were 
established in 1828. 

333. Critics and Essayists. — One of the best-known crit- 
ics of the time was Francis Jeffrey. He was at the head of 
the Edinburgh Review for more than a quarter of a century 
and wielded his critical pen with imperious spirit. Though 
Whiggish in politics, he was conservative in literature and had 
little patience with the literary innovations of the period. He 
treated Byron with contempt, belittled Scott, and pursued 
Wordsworth wtih relentless severity. But the results of this 
unsympathetic and often ferocious criticism were not without 
benefit. Apart from the replies it provoked, it forced an ex- 
amination of fundamental principles, and grounded the new 
literature on a surer foundation. 

William Hazlitt justly ranks as one of the foremost of Eng- 
lish critics. Charles Lamb's quaint " Essays of Elia " give him 
enduring fame. His " Dissertation upon Roast Pig " is a noted 



ipo EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

piece of humorous writing. John Wilson, for many years the 
leading spirit of Blackwood, has earned a place in English 
literature under the pseudonym of " Christopher North." John 
Lockhart, at first a contributor to Blackwood, and afterward 
editor of the Quarterly Review, was conservative in his tastes 
and made severe attacks both upon Keats and Tennyson in his 
earlier poems. His " Life of Scott," his father-in-law, is one of 
the best biographies in any language. Leigh Hunt's works 
were originally contributions to periodical literature. 

334. Two Noteworthy Historians. — There are two his- 
torians that deserve mention, though neither attained the 
heights of the great triumvirate of the preceding period. Henry 
Hallam was both a historian and literary critic, distinguished 
for his extensive research and judicial fairness. His " View 
of the State of Europe during the Middle Ages," which was 
published in 18 18, his " Constitutional History of England," 
which dates from 1827, and his " Introduction to the Literature 
of Europe in the Fifteenth, Sixteenth, and Seventeenth Cen- 
turies," which was completed in 1839, are still standard works. 
By reason of his conversative tastes, he is somewhat less trust- 
worthy as a critic than as a historian. William Mitford's 
" History of Greece," which was completed in 1818, is recog- 
nized as a work of scholarly ability, though it is seriously 
marred by the prejudices of the author. He was almost 
fanatical in his opposition to the democratic tendencies of his 
age. 

335. Woman in Literature. — One of the most remark- 
able features of this period is the place that woman now as- 
sumes in literature. Awakening to a sense of the conventional 
restraints by which she had long been surrounded, she began to 
desire a larger freedom cf thought and action. The title of Mary 
Wollstonecraft's book, " Vindication of the Rights of Woman," 
is indicative of the rising movement. An unusually large group 
of female writers, brought up under the influence of the closing 
decades of the eighteenth century, distinguished themselves 
in fiction and poetry. Ann Radcliffe belonged to the romantic 
school and employed " castles with secret passages, trap-doors, 
forests, banditti, abductions, sliding panels," as the machinery 



AGE OF SCOTT. 191 

of her stories. Maria Edgeworth was a novelist of Irish life, 
and Scott said that her work suggested his Scottish romances. 
Jane Austen, who wrote realistic stories of contemporary social 
life, has been called the mother of the modern novel. Other 
writers belonging to this galaxy are Anna Letitia Barbauld, 
Jane Porter, whose " Thaddeus of Warsaw " and " Scottish 
Chiefs " are still popular, and Hannah More, a poet, dramatist, 
and novelist of real ability. A list of their principal works will 
be found on a preceding page. 

336. Revival of Poetry. — Poetry, recovering from its brief 
eclipse in the preceding period, shines forth with unwonted 
splendor. Apart from the great representative names to be 
considered later, — Wordsworth and Byron — the list of secon- 
dary poets is unusually long and unusually good. 

Thomas Campbell early showed a striking literary precocity. 
At the age of twenty-two, he published the " Pleasures of 
Hope," the success of which was instantaneous. Its opening 
lines are felicitous and well known : — 

" At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow 
Spans with bright arch the glittering 1 hills below, 
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? 
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue." 

He did not profit by his early success. The booksellers 
offered him lucrative employment; but through procrastination 
and constitutional indolence, he disappointed their expectations 
and forfeited their confidence. In 1809 he published his ro- 
mantic poem of " Gertrude of Wyoming," the scene of which 
is laid in Pennsylvania. It ranks next to the " Pleasures of 
Hope." But it is, perhaps, in his lyrical pieces, among which 
are " Lochiel's Warning," " Hohenlinden," " Battle of the Bal- 
tic," " Ye Mariners of England," " O'Connor's Child," " Hal- 
lowed Ground," " The Soldier's Dream," " The Last Man," that 



192 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

he attained the highest excellence. Elected Lord rector of 
the University of Glasgow in 1826, he discharged his duties 
with a zeal that won admiration. He died in 1844 and was 
buried in Westminster Abbey. 

337. John Keats. — John Keats was a brilliant but short- 
lived poet. Had he lived to fulfil his early promise, it is prob- 
able that he would have stood among the first poets of the 
period. As it is, several of his poems take rank among the 
choicest productions of the English muse. He began his literary 
career by the publication of some sonnets, which were favor- 
ably received. The sonnet on " Chapman's Homer," contain- 
ing the lines, — 

" Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken," — 

is truly admirable. A volume of poems, published in 1817, was 
coldly received. The following year appeared " Endymion," 
which contains some fine passages, the opening lines being well 
known : — 

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever; 
Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing." 

The " lusciousness of the rhythm," which breaks completely 
with Augustan models, gave offence to conservative critics. 
The poem was savagely attacked both in Blackzvood and the 
Quarterly. In 1820 Keats sent forth his third volume, in which 
his poetic genius conquered recognition and secured for him an 
honorable place in English literature. His " Hyperion," 
" Lamia," " Eve of St. Agnes," and his odes to a " Nightingale," 
a " Grecian Urn," and " Autumn," are all exquisite productions. 
He went to Italy shortly after the appearance of this volume, 
where he died of pulmonary consumption early in 1821. His 
headstone bears the simple inscription, dictated by himself, 
" Here lies one whose name was writ in water." 



AGE OF SCOTT. 193 

338. Robert Southey. — Robert Southey is an example of 
untiring industry in literary pursuits. He depended upon 
literature for a living, and Byron pronounced him " the only 
existing man of letters." He worked with mechanical reg- 
ularity and produced more than a hundred volumes of poetry 
and prose. He was a great lover of books ; and his library, 
which contained fourteen thousand volumes, De Quincey called 
his wife. When in his old age he became speechless and im- 
becile, he still wandered around his library, taking down his 
books and fondly pressing them to his lips. 

339. Ambitious Poems. — As a poet, Southey was ambi- 
tious; and nourishing his talents on Tasso, Ariosto, and Spen- 
ser, he contemplated and composed several lengthy epics. His 
" Joan of Arc," a youthful performance, was well received. 
" Thalaba " was published in 1801, " Madoc," on which the 
poet was content to rest his fame, in 1805, and the " Curse of 
Kehama " in 1810. His longer poems abound in splendid 
imagery, but they are lacking in personal interest and dramatic 
art. He was made poet laureate in 18 13. 

" Thalaba, the Destroyer " is a rhythmical romance in irreg- 
ular and unrhymed measure. The opening lines, perhaps the 
best in the poem, are very pleasing: — 

" How beautiful is night ! 
A dewy freshness fills the silent air; 
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain 

Breaks the serene of heaven : 
In full-orbed glory yonder moon divine 

Rolls through the dark blue depths. 

Beneath her steady ray 

The desert circle spreads, 
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. 

How beautiful is night ! " 

Among his best short pieces are " The Scholar," " Auld 
Cloots." " March to Moscow," " Mary the Maid of the Inn/' 
" Lodore," " The Well of St. Keyne." 

340. Prose Writings. — In prose Southey wrote criticism, 



i 9 4 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

biography, and history, in all which he exhibited great learn- 
ing and an admirable style. His " Life of Nelson " is a classic 
biography. Among his other prose writings are the " Life of 
Cowper," " Life of Wesley," " The British Admirals," and 
" History of the Peninsular War." " The uprightness and 
beauty of his character," says Saintsbury, " his wonderful 
helpfulness to others, and the uncomplaining way in which he 
bore what was almost poverty, are not more generally acknowl- 
edged than the singular and pervading excellence of his English 
prose style, the robustness of his literary genius, and his unique 
devotion to literature." 

341. Thomas Moore. — Thomas Moore, born of Irish 
parentage in Dublin, always remained an Irish patriot, and 
labored both in poetry and prose to advance the interests of 
his country. By his keen satires he brought reproach upon 
the oppressors of Ireland; and by his songs he awakened and 
sustained tender and patriotic sentiments. No other poet ex- 
cept Byron was more popular in his day. He possessed great 
social gifts, — a good voice, admirable conversational talents, 
and a musical skill that enabled him to render effectively his 
erotic and patriotic songs. Though his poetry does not possess 
the highest qualities, — being artificial rather than genuine, 
glittering rather than true, — yet his poems, with their wit, 
sentiment, melody, are perused, especially by young people, with 
more interest than those of any of his contemporaries, with 
the possible exception of Byron. 

In 1801 he published a collection of amatory verses, which 
earned him the position of poet laureate, and gained him the 
title of " the young Catullus of his day." In 1806 he sent forth 
another volume, which the Edinburgh Review denounced as " a 
corrupter of morals." Enraged at the severity of the criticism, 
the poet challenged Jeffrey. But the duel was stopped by the 
police, and on examination the pistols were found charged only 
with " villainous salt-petre " — a circumstance that Byron did 
not fail to notice in his " English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers : " — • 



AGE OF SCOTT. 195 

" Can none remember that eventful day, 
That ever glorious, almost fatal fray, 
When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 
And Bow Street myrmidons stood laughing by?" 

342. " Irish Melodies." — Among Moore's most popular 
and most enduring productions are the "Irish Melodies" — a 
collection of charming lyrics, tender, convivial, or patriotic, 
designed to accompany popular airs. Their composition was a 
congenial task, one well suited to the poet's powers. lie was 
for Ireland what Burns was for Scotland — the singer of his 
people. But the songs of the two poets, while alike in attaining 
a high excellence, are very different. Moore is artificial, 
polished, reminding us of the drawing-room ; Burns is uncon- 
ventional and genuine, suggesting the green fields and singing 
birds. 

343. " Lalla Rookh." — Moore wrote two long and ambi- 
tious poems, " Lalla Rookh " and " The Loves of the Angels." 
Both are Oriental in character, but the former is far superior 
in interest and felicity of treatment. Through a course of 
laborious reading, he familiarized himself with Oriental customs 
and scenery. Lalla Rookh is an Oriental princess who with 
great pomp journeys from Delhi to Bucharia, where she is to 
marry the king. On the way she is entertained by a young 
minstrel, whose tender, passionate songs win her heart. With 
sadness she approaches the end of her journey; but what is her 
joy to find the amiable minstrel her future husband and the 
King of Bucharia ! The poem is true in its local coloring, 
sparkling with Oriental gems, and fragrant with Oriental musk 
and roses. A single quotation from the " Paradise and Peri " 
must suffice : — 

" Go, wing thy flight from star to star, 
From world to luminous world, as far 

As the universe spreads its flaming wall ; 
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, 
And multiply each through endless years, 

One minute of Heaven is worth them all." 



196 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Among his prose works are " The Epicurean," an Eastern 
romance, the " Life of Sheridan," which is a friendly panegyric, 
and the " Life of Byron," which does not reveal the whole truth 
touching that nobleman's life and character. 

344. Percy Bysshe Shelley. — Shelley is, perhaps, the 
most poetical of our poets. He has not the philosophic quality 
of Wordsworth, nor the versatile power of Byron; but in sus- 
tained loftiness and sweep of imagination he surpasses both his 
great contemporaries. He can never be a popular poet. He 
dwells habitually in an imaginative realm beyond the popular 
taste and the popular capacity. No other poet seems to have 
the rapture of inspiration in a fuller degree. To some extent 
he was as the voice of one crying in the wilderness. He not 
only pointed out many of the evils of social life, but with stead- 
fast faith prophesied a happier era. The principles that in 
spired much of his poetry, separated indeed from his extrava- 
gance, have since met with wide acceptance. 

345. As a Reformer. — As a practical reformer, Shelley's 
life must be regarded as a failure. While his aims were essen- 
tially pure and noble, his ignorance of the world betrayed him 
into fatal mistakes. His ardor outstripped discretion and he 
sought to do in a brief space what can be accomplished only 
in the slow evolution of centuries. His unbalanced enthusiasm 
betrayed him into extravagances ; and thus, while seeking un- 
selfishly to improve the state of society, he advocated radical 
doctrines, which in practice would have increased tenfold the 
evils they were intended to cure. 

346. Various Poems. — His first extended poem, " Queen 
Mab," was published in 18 13. It is an intemperate attack on 
the existing form of society, government, and religion. 
" Alastor " describes a pure and gifted youth who, at first sat- 
isfied with the beauty and grandeur of nature, goes in search of 
an ideal womanhood. As ideal perfection does not exist in 
mortal form, his search proved in vain, and at length the 
imaginative wanderer, worn out by disappointment, descends 
to an untimely grave. His longest poem is " The Revolt of 
Islam," in which the narrative is greatly obscured by the 
luxuriance of the imagery. His two tragedies, " Prometheus 



AGE OF SCOTT. 197 

Unbound " and " The Cenci," are admirable works of genius, 
But his most popular productions must always remain the 
superb " Ode to Liberty," " To a Skylark," and " The Cloud," 
which begins, — 

" I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noon-day dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder." 

347. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. — The influence of Cole- 
ridge was surprising". Though his works are singularly frag- 
mentary, he stands out as a prominent figure among his great 
contemporaries. His influence seems due chiefly to his original- 
ity, his magnetic personal presence, and the stimulating quality 
of his intellectual activity. He invented new forms of poetry, to 
which Scott acknowledged himself indebted; and he introduced 
German metaphysics, which was not without effect on Words- 
worth and many subsequent writers. His strong, restless in- 
tellect, while deficient in executive power, was constantly blaz- 
ing new paths for others. He possessed, in extraordinary de- 
gree, the mental endowment which we denominate genius. 

348. " The Ancient Mariner." — This poem appeared in 
" Lyrical Ballads," a volume prepared jointly with W r ordsworth 
in 1798. In "The Ancient Mariner," which is wholly unlike 
anything else he ever wrote, Coleridge lends, in a wonderful 
degree, the force of reality to what is purely imaginary. It is 
remarkable for its strong ballad style, for its vivid descriptions, 
and for its rounded completeness of form. Of its kind there is, 
perhaps, nothing better in our language. The lesson of the 



198 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

poem, though it was not written for its moral, is contained in 
the parting words of the dreadful mariner : — 

" Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
To thee, thou wedding-guest ! 
He prayeth well who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

"He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all." 

349. Three Periods. — The life of Coleridge has been di- 
vided into three periods, according to the prevailing character 
of his intellectual activity. The first, extending to the year 
1798, has been called the poetic period. The second, extending 
to the year 18 18, is known as the critical period. His best 
known work of this period is the " Biographia Literaria," in 
which, often in a charming way, he sketches his literary life 
and opinions. The third, extending to his death in 1834, is 
characterized as the theological period. During the latter part 
of his life, his dominant interest was metaphysics and theology. 
In philosophy he was a transcendentalist. He was a profound 
student of the German metaphysicians, particularly of Kant, 
Schelling, and Hegel, whose teachings he was the first to nat- 
uralize in England. In 1825 he published his "Aids to Reflec- 
tion," the purpose of which was to show that the " Christian 
faith is the perfection of human intelligence." It is regarded 
by many as his ablest work. 

350. A Fascinating Talker. — There was a wonderful 
magnetism about Coleridge's personality. He gathered about 
him a circle of disciples, who revered him as a prophet. His 
conversation exerted a fascinating power, even when by reason 
of its depth or transcendentalism it was not clearly understood. 
No more wonderful talker has appeared since the days of 
Johnson. His " Table Talk," preserved by his nephew, gives 
an idea of the acuteness and variety of his observation, though 



AGE OF SCOTT. 199 

not of his inspired impressiveness. " Throughout a long-drawn 
summer's day," says Henry Nelson Coleridge, " would this man 
talk to you in low, equable, but clear and musical tones, con- 
cerning things human and divine; marshalling all history, har- 
monizing all experiment, probing the depths of your conscious- 
ness, and revealing visions of glory and of terror to the imagi- 
nation; but pouring withal such floods of light upon the mind 
that you might, for a season, like Paul, become blind in the 
very act of conversion." x 

351. Aims and Work. — Coleridge calmly passed away 
July 25, 1834. In spite of his many defects of character and 
life, his aims were pure and good. " As God hears me," he 
wrote only a few months before his death, " the originating, 
continuing, and sustaining wish and design in my heart were 
to exalt the glory of His name and, which is the same thing in 
other words, to promote the improvement of mankind." That 
he did not, with his magnificent gifts, accomplish more was 
due to a will of singular infirmity. He did not restrain his 
thought and imagination, which moved in large orbits like 
Saturn or Jupiter, within the range of his power of achievement. 
And in the composition of his works he was constantly drawn 
aside from the logical path of development by every beautiful 
prospect that burst upon him from adjacent fields. His works 
are rarely systematic and complete ; but in spite of their obvious 
defects, they are suggestive, original, profound, ranking him 
as one of the greatest thinkers of his age. 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

The political and social condition of England, Green, " Short 
History of the English People," pp. 786-836, Gardiner, " Student's 
History of England," pp. 792-914. 

A review of Lamb's " Tales of Shakespeare."' A critique of his 
" Dissertation upon Roast Pig " in the " Essays of Elia." What ele- 
ments of character are shown in the essay " The Praise of Chimney- 

1 See Carlyle's sketch in the " Life of Sterling." 



200 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

Sweepers?" A review of "A Bachelor's Complaint of the Be- 
havior of Married People " in the " Essays of Elia." What differ- 
ence does Lamb point out between " The Old and the New School- 
master?" A review of Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice," 
Painter, " Guide to Literary Criticism," Ch. XII. A study of Jane 
Porter's " Thaddeus of Warsaw " or " The Scottish Chiefs." 

A review of the first part of Campbell's " Pleasures of Hope." 
A study of his martial odes, " Battle of the Baltic," " Ye Mariners 
of England," and " Hohenlinden." A criticism of the following 
lyrics : " Exile of Erin," " Ode to the Memory of Burns," ° The 
Soldier's Dream," " To the Rainbow," " The Last Man,' " Hallowed 
Ground," " A Thought Suggested by the New Year," " How Deli- 
cious is the Winning." Make a collection of striking or felicitous 
passages from these poems. The story of Keats's " Lamia." A 
critique of his " Eve of St. Agnes." A study of the " Ode to a 
Nightingale " and " Ode to a Grecian Urn." A study of Keats's 
sonnets. A scene from Southey's " Thalaba." An incident from 
" The Curse of Kebama." The sentiments of his " Ode Written 
during the Negotiations with Bonaparte in 1814." A brief paper 
on " The Battle of Blenheim " and " Stanzas Written in his Li- 
brary." 

The three best lyrics in Moore's " Irish Melodies." The story of 
his " Paradise and Peri " in " Lalla Rookh." A paper on " The Light 
of the Harem." A comparative study of Hood's " The Haunted 
House " and Coleridge's " The Ancient Mariner." What traits of 
character are revealed in " The Bridge of Sighs " and " The Song 
of the Shirt." In what other poems of Hood is the same spirit 
shown? A critique of the two poems "I Remember, I Remember" 
and " The Death-bed." A paper on Hood's humorous poems. The 
most interesting letter in " L"p the Rhine." 

A study of Shelley's " Ode to Liberty " and " Ode to the West 
W'ind. A critique of " The Cloud," and " To a Skylark.' A study 
of the " Hymn to Intellectual Beauty." A comparison of Shelley's 
" Mont Blanc " and Coleridge's " Hymn Before Sunrise." A re- 
view of Shelley's " Adonais " : how does it compare with Milton's 
"Lycidas"? A comparative study of Aeschylus' "Prometheus 
Bound" (Mrs. Browning's translation) and Shelley's "Prometheus 
Unbound." The plot of the drama of " The Cenci." Campbell, 
"Samuel Taylor Coleridge," Traill, "Life of Coleridge" (English 



AGE OF SCOTT. 201 

Men of Letters), Caine, "Life of Coleridge" (Great Writers 
Series), Carlyle, "Life of Sterling," De Quincey, "Literary Remi- 
niscences," Coleridge " Biographia Literaria." 

A study of the versification of " The Ancient Mariner " with 
special reference to its irregularities, Painter, " Guide to Literary 
Criticism," Part III. Coleridge's estimate of the " Lyrical Bal- 
lads," " Biographia Literaria," Ch. IV. The occasion of the " Lyri- 
cal Ballads," " Biographia Literaria," Ch. XIV. A review of the 
" Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni." A study of 
the poem " To William Wordsworth." Coleridge's attitude to 
nature as shown in " The Nightingale." The political sympathies 
exhibited in the " Ode to France." A review of " Christabel." An 
outline of the tragedy " Remorse." Coleridge as a talker, Carlyle, 
" Life of Sterling," Ch. VIII. Coleridge's estimate of Hamlet, 
" Lectures on Shakespeare." 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

352. Literary Rank. — The greatest literary figure during 
the first quarter of the nineteenth century is undoubtedly Sir 
Walter Scott. He occupied scarcely less relative prominence for 
a time than did Samuel Johnson a few decades earlier. It is not 
uncommon to associate his name with the period in which he 
was preeminent. He distinguished himself in both poetry and 
prose. He created a species of romantic poetry that was re- 
ceived with great applause until it was eclipsed by the intenser 
productions of Byron. "Why did you quit poetry?" a friend 
once inquired of Scott. " Because Byron beat me/' was the 
remarkably frank reply. He then turned to fiction; and in his 
splendid series of historical romances he stands preeminent not 
only among the writers of England, but of the world. 

353. Ancestry. — Sir Walter Scott descended from a line 
distinguished for sports and arms rather than letters. His 
father was a dignified man, orderly in his habits, and fond of 
ceremony. It is said that he " absolutely loved a funeral " ; 
and from far and near he was sent for to superintend mortuary 
ceremonies. As a lawyer he frequently lost clients by insist- 
ing that they should be just — a sturdy uprightness that was 
transmitted to his illustrious son. 

Sir Walter's mother was a woman of superior native ability 
and of excellent education. She had a good memory and a 
talent for narration. " If I have been able to do anything in 
the way of painting past times," he once wrote, "it is very 
much from the studies with which she presented me." He 
loved his mother tenderly ; and the evening after his burial a 
number of small objects that had once belonged to her were 
found arranged in careful order in his desk, where his eye might 
rest upon them every morning before he began his task. This 
is an instance of filial piety as touching as it is beautiful. 




possession of Mr. Constable of Edinburgh, now in the'collection of Alaric A. Watts, £sq. 



^L. ^iyT^J^U, ^X^ 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 203 

354. Childhood. — Walter Scott, the ninth of twelve chil- 
dren, was born in Edinburgh, Aug. 15, 1771. On account of 
feeble health he was sent into the country, where his childhood 
was spent in the midst of attractive scenery. 

At school he established a reputation for irregular ability. He 
possessed great energy, vitality, and pride, and was naturally 
a leader among his fellow-pupils. He had the gift of story- 
telling in a remarkable degree. He found difficulty in con- 
fining himself to the prescribed studies and persistently declined 
to learn Greek. In Latin he made fair attainments. He de- 
lighted in the past, reverenced existing institutions, sympathized 
with royalty, and as a boy, as in after life, he was a Tory. 

355. Romantic Tastes. — As a student of law at the Uni- 
versity of Edinburgh Scott was noted for his gigantic memory 
and enormous capacity for work. His literary tastes ran in the 
direction of mediaeval life, and he devoured legend and romance 
and border song with great avidity. He learned Italian to 
read Ariosto, and Spanish to read Cervantes, whose novels, he 
said, " first inspired him with the desire to excel in fiction." 
But his memory retained only what suited his genius. He 
used to illustrate this characteristic by the story of an old 
borderer who once said to a Scotch divine: "No, sir, I have 
no command of my memory. It only retains what hits my 
fancy; and probably, sir, if you were to preach to me for two 
hours, I would not be able, when you finished, to remember a 
word you had been saying." 

356. As a Lawyer. — As a lawyer Scott was not notably 
successful. He was fond of making excursions over the coun- 
try to visit localities celebrated for natural beauty or historic 
events. In view of this habit, his father reproached him as 
being better fitted for a pedler than for a lawyer. He was 
rather fond, it must be said, of living — 

" One crowded hour of glorious life." 

" But drunk or sober," such is the testimony of one of his 
companions at this time, " he was aye the gentleman." Scott 
practiced at the bar fourteen years ; but his earnings never 



204 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

amounted to much more than two hundred pounds a year. In 
1799 he was made sheriff of Selkirkshire on a salary of three 
hundred pounds; and a few years later he became clerk of the 
session, — an officer in the court of Edinburgh, — a position that 
increased his income to sixteen hundred pounds. He was not 
eloquent as a pleader; his tastes were averse to legal drudgery; 
and his proclivities for poetry and for rambling over the coun- 
try did not enhance his reputation as a lawyer. But wdiether 
practicing at the bar or wandering over the country, " he was 
makin' himself a' the time " — storing his mind with the facts, 
legends, and characters which he was afterward to embody in 
his immortal works. 

357. "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." — Though 
Scott's greatCot literary work was to be in prose, he began with 
poetry. His first undertaking was a translation from the Ger- 
man of Burger's spectral ballad, " Lenore." Though his render- 
ing is spirited, he was far too healthy-minded to be perfectly 
at home in treating spectral themes. He soon turned to more 
congenial subjects. From his college days he had been making 
a collection of old Scottish ballads. In 1802 he published in 
two volumes " The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," which 
was an immediate success. 

This " proved to be a well," says Carlyle, " from which flowed 
one of the broadest rivers. Metrical Romances (which in due 
time pass into Prose Romances) ; the old life of men resusci- 
tated for us ; it is a mighty word ! Not as dead tradition, but 
as a palpable presence, the past stood before us. There they 
were, the rugged old fighting men; in their doughty simplicity 
and strength, with their heartiness, their healthiness, their 
stout self-help, in their iron basnets, leather jerkins, jack-boots, 
in their quaintness of manner and costume ; there as they looked 
and lived. It was like a new-discovered continent in literature." 

358. The Last Minstrel.— The native bent of his mind, 
and his studies for many years peculiarly fitted him to restore 
and illustrate the simplicity and violence of the old border life. 
The transition to original poems, in which the legends and his- 
tory of the same region were embodied, was easily made. " The 
Lay of the Last Minstrel " was published in 1805 and at once 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 205 

became widely popular. More than two thousand copies were 
sold the first year; and by 1830 the sales reached forty- four 
thousand copies, bringing the author nearly a thousand pounds. 
Three years later " Marmion," his greatest poem, appeared; 
and this was followed in 1810 by the " Lady of the Lake." 
They were read with enthusiasm. They were new in subject 
and treatment. Without any pretention to classical regularity 
and finish, they were rapid, energetic, and romantic — the style 
exactly suited to the subject. " I am sensible," the author said, 
" that if there be anything good about my poetry or prose 
either, it is a hurried frankness of composition, which pleases 
soldiers, sailors, and young people of bold and active disposi- 
tions." They are so simple in structure and thought as to be 
easily comprehended; they abound in wild scenes and daring 
deeds ; they are suffused with a patriotic, martial spirit, and a 
delirious enjoyment of wild outdoor life. 

359. Poetic Characteristics. — Scott's poetry may be char- 
acterized as objective. In place of meditation and mysticism, 
■ — a wrestling with the great mystery of existence, — we have 
graphic descriptions of external objects. He pictures things 
for us, as in the lines at the opening of " Marmion," descriptive 
of the castle : — ■ 

" The warriors on the turrets high, 
Moving athwart the evening sky, 

Seemed forms of giant height; 
Their armor, as it caught the rays, 
Flashed back again the western blaze, 

In lines of dazzling light." 

360. Lyric Faculty. — Some of his battle scenes are un- 
surpassed for their vividness and power. His lyric faculty is 
very great ; and some of the songs in " The Lady of the Lake " 
are almost unequalled in their picturesque melody. Take, for 
example, Ellen's song, beginning, — 

" Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er. 

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ; 



2 o6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Dream of battle-fields no more, 

Days of danger, nights of waking. 
In our isle's enchanted hall, 

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing; 
Fairy strains of music fall, 

Every sense in slumber dewing. 
Soldier, rest ; thy warfare o'er, 
Dream of fighting fields no more: 
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
Morn of toil, nor night of waking." 

361. Method of Work. — Nearly all of Scott's poetry was 
written in a beautiful little country house at Ashestiel, where he 
resided seven years. He devoted the first part of the day to 
his literary work. " Arrayed in his shooting-jacket, or what- 
ever dress he meant to use till dinner-time, he was seated at his 
desk by six o'clock, all his papers arranged before him in the 
most accurate order, and his books of reference marshalled 
around him on the floor, while at least one favorite dog lay 
watching his eye, just beyond the line of circumvallation. 
Thus, by the time the family assembled for breakfast, between 
nine and ten, he had done enough, in his own language, 'to 
break the neck of the day's work.' " 

362. Baronial Residence. — In 1812 Scott moved to Ab- 
botsford, where he spent the rest of his life. He was a man 
of great personal and family pride. It was his ambition to 
live in great magnificence and to dispense hospitality on a 
large scale. He bought a large area of land at an aggregate 
expense of twenty-nine thousand pounds and erected a baronial 
castle. Here he realized for a time his ideal of life. He was 
visited by distinguished men and hero-worshippers from all 
parts of the world. Indeed, his fame became oppressive. His 
correspondence was enormous, and as many as sixteen parties 
of sight-seers visited Abbotsford in a single day. 

363. Bad Business Ventures.— The great mistake in 
Scott's life lay in his business ventures. Through them came 
ultimately embarrassment and disaster. In the hope of increas- 
ing his income, he established the publishing house of John 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 207 

Ballantyne & Co., in Edinburgh. John Ballantyne was a friv- 
olous, dissipated man, wholly unfit for the management of the 
enterprise. Scott, though possessing sufficient discernment, 
was easily led away by his feelings. As a consequence, the 
ware-houses of the new firm were soon filled with a quantity 
of unsalable stock. Only the extensive sale of his novels saved 
the company from early bankruptcy. But ultimately the crash 
came, and in 1825 Scott found himself personally responsible 
for the enormous debt of one hundred and thirty thousand 
pounds. 

364. Heroic Courage. — For years he had been the literary 
sovereign of Great Britain. He had lived in the midst of great 
splendor at Abbotsford. To find his means swept away in a 
single moment was a terrific blow, sufficient to crush an ordi- 
nary man. But at no time in his career did Scott exhibit so 
fully his heroic character. Instead of crushing him, misfor- 
tune only called forth his strength. With indomitable will 
and sturdy integrity he set to work to meet his immense obli- 
gations. There is nothing more heroic in the course of Eng- 
lish literature. Work after work came from his pen in rapid 
succession. He well-nigh accomplished his purpose; but at 
last, as we shall see, his mind and body gave way under the 
tremendous strain, and he fell a martyr to high-souled integ- 
rity. 

365. " Waverley." — In 1814, when the affairs of Ballan- 
tyne & Co. were in a perplexing condition, Scott took up a 
work in prose, which he had begun in 1805, and pushed it rap- 
idly to completion. This was " Waverley," the first of that won- 
derful series which has placed his name at the head of his- 
torical novelists. Though published anonymously, as were all 
its successors, it met with astonishing success. It decided his 
future literary career. His poetic vein had been exhausted, 
and Byron's verse was attracting public attention. Hence- 
forth he devoted himself to historical fiction, for which his 
native powers and previous training were precisely adapted. 

For the remainder .of his life he composed, in addition to 
other literary labors, on an average two romances a year, illus- 
trating every period in Scottish, English, and continental his- 



208 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

tory from the time of the Crusades to the middle of the 
eighteenth century. The series is, upon the whole, remarkably 
even in excellence ; but among the most interesting may be men- 
tioned " Old Mortality," which describes the sufferings of the 
Covenanters; "The Heart of Midlothian," to which many crit- 
ics assign the highest rank; " Ivanhoe," which is very popular; 
and " Quentin Durward," which holds a distinguished place. 

366. True Historical Novel. — Before this time attempts 
at the historical novel had been artificial. Contemporary ways 
were simply transferred to a more or less remote period, with- 
out regard to what is known as " local coloring." While work- 
ing in the romantic spirit that had already appeared, Scott 
created in its true sense the historical novel as a real tran- 
script of the past, and raised it to an excellence that has never 
been surpassed. He brought before the mind a magnificent 
living panorama, often idealized, indeed, of previous ages. His 
work is not without defects and limitations ; but, " after all, it 
is such a body of literature as, for complete liberation from 
any debts to models, fertility and abundance of invention, no- 
bility of sentiment, variety and keenness of delight, nowhere 
else exists." 

367. Scope of His Power. — The Waverley novels are char- 
acterized by largeness of thought and style. They turn on 
public rather than private interests. In place of narrow social 
circles, we are introduced into the midst of great public move- 
ments. Crusaders, Papists, Puritans, Cavaliers, Roundheads, 
Jacobites, Jews, freebooters, preachers, schoolmasters, gypsies, 
beggars, move before us with the reality of life. " His compre- 
hensive power," says Stopford Brooke, " which drew with the 
same certainty so many characters in so many various classes, 
was the direct result of his profound sympathy with the simpler 
feelings of the human heart, and of his pleasure in writing so 
as to make human life more beautiful and more good in the 
eyes of men." 

368. Sweep of His Style. — Scott's style corresponds to 
the largeness of his subjects. He paints with a large brush. 
He could not have achieved distinction in domestic novels, with 
their petty interests and trifling distinctions. He was an ad- 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 209 

mirer of Miss Austen, in reference to whose manner he said: 
" The big bow-wow strain I can do myself, like any now going; 
but the exquisite touch which renders ordinary commonplace 
things and characters interesting, from the truth of the descrip- 
tion and the sentiment, is denied me." " Scott needed," observes 
Hutton, " a certain largeness of type, a strongly marked class- 
life, and, where it was possible, a free out-of-doors life, for his 
delineations. No one could paint beggars and gypsies, and wan- 
dering fiddlers, and mercenary soldiers, and peasants, and 
farmers, and lawyers, and magistrates, and preachers, and 
courtiers and statesmen, and best of all perhaps queens and 
kings, with anything like his ability." 

369. The Magic Wand Broken.— In 1825, after the fail- 
ure of Ballantyne & Co., Scott resolutely set to work to pay 
his creditors. His only resource was his pen. Although his 
cherished hopes were all blasted, he toiled on indomitably till 
nature gave way. Two days after the news of the crash 
reached him, he was working on " Woodstock." In three years 
he earned and paid over to his creditors no less than forty 
thousand pounds. If his health had continued, he would have 
discharged the enormous debt. But unfavorable symptoms be- 
gan to manifest themselves in 1829, and the following year he 
had a stroke of paralysis. Though he recovered from it, his 
faculties never regained their former clearness and strength. 
Nevertheless, in • spite of the urgent advice of physicians and 
friends, he continued to toil on. " Count Robert of Paris " and 
" Castle Dangerous " appeared in 1831. But they showed a de- 
cline in mental vigor — his magic wand was broken. An entry 
in his diary at this time is truly pathetic : " The blow is a stun- 
ning one, I suppose, for I scarcely feel it. It is singular, but 
it comes with as little surprise as if I had a remedy ready : yet 
God knows I am at sea in the dark, and the vessel leaky, I 
think, into the bargain." It is the pathos of a strong man's 
awakening to a consciousness that his strength is gone. 

370. The Closing Scene. — A sea voyage was recom- 
mended; and in October, 1831, he sailed, in a vessel put at his 
disposal by the government, for Malta. He visited various 
points on the Mediterranean, but without material benefit. 



210 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

With the failing of his strength, he longed for Abbotsford. 
As he caught sight of the towers once more, he sprang up with 
a cry of delight. A few days before his death he called his 
son-in-law Lockhart to his bedside. " Lockhart," he said, " I 
may have but a minute to speak to you. My dear, be a good 
man, — be virtuous, — be religious, — be a good man. Noth- 
ing else will give you any comfort when you come to lie 
here." These were almost his last words. Four days after- 
ward, during which time he showed scarcely any signs of con- 
sciousness, he quietly passed away, Sept. 21, 1832, — one of the 
grandest, but, also, — if we think of his disappointed hopes, — 
one of the saddest characters in English literature. 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Lockhart, " Life of Scott," Hutton, "Life of Scott" (English 
Men of Letters), Yonge, "Life of Scott" (Great Writers Series), 
Carlyle, " Essay on Scott," Irving, " Abbotsford," Hunnewell, 
" Lands of Scott." 

The story of "The Lay of the Last Minstrel." A description 
of the convent in the second canto of " Marmion." A description of 
the battle in the sixth canto. A review of the chase in the first 
canto of " The Lady of the Lake." A critique of the songs in 
" The Lady of the Lake." The story of the combat in canto fifth 
of " The Lady of the Lake." The romantic element in Scott's 
metrical romances. Illustrate from any of these romances Scott's 
attitude toward nature. What are the distinctive features of Scott's 
poetry, illustrating each point? 

What are the six component elements of the novel? 
Painter, " Guide to Literary Criticism," Ch. XII. Give the 
plot of " Ivanhoe." Describe the leading characters of " Kenil- 
worth." What period and movement are illustrated in " The 
Talisman"? A description of the most exciting incident or scene 
in any of these novels. A character study of Rowena and Rebecca 
in " Ivanhoe." Illustrate from any of these novels the leading 
features of Scott's genius and manner. A study of Scott's style, 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



211 



following the suggestions in Painter's " Guide to Literary Criti- 
cism.'' 

The Hist chapter of "The Talisman" is given in the selections of 
Part II. 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



LORD BYRON. 

371. Personal Elements. — No other poet has so embodied 
himself in his poetry as Byron. Had he not possessed a power- 
ful individuality, his works would long since have perished. 
He was utterly lacking in the independent creative power of 
Shakespeare, who never identified himself with his characters. 
Throughout Byron's many works, we see but one person — a 
proud, misanthropic, sceptical, ungovernable man. Whatever 
exaggerations of feature there may be in the portrait, we recog- 
nize the essential outlines of the poet himself. 

372. Poetic Characteristics.— His poetry is largely auto- 
biographical and his utterance intense. Without the careful 
artistic polish of many minor poets, his manner is rapid, stir- 
ring, powerful. He was, perhaps, the most remarkable poetic 
genius of the century; yet his powers were not turned to the 
best account. He lacked the balance of a noble character and 
a well-regulated life. On reading a collection of Burns's 
poems, he once exclaimed : " What an antithetical mind ! — ten- 
derness, roughness — delicacy, coarseness — sentiment, sensual- 
ity — soaring and grovelling — dirt and deity — all mixed up in 
that one compound of inspired clay." The same antitheses 
might be applied with equal truth to himself. 

373. Parentage. — George Gordon, Lord Byron, was born 
in London, Jan. 22, 1788. His ancestry runs back in an un- 
broken line of nobility to the time of William the Conqueror. 
His father was an unprincipled and heartless profligate, who 
married an heiress to get her property, and who, as soon as this 
was squandered, abandoned her. His mother was a proud, 
passionate, hysterical woman, who alternately caressed and 
abused her child. At one moment treating him with extrava- 
gant fondness, at the next she reproached him as a " lame 
brat," and flung the poker at his head. With such parentage 




^J^L^J 



LORD BYRON. 213 

and such rearing, it becomes us to temper somewhat the 
severity of our judgment of his character. 

374. Early Romance. — He was sent to school at Harrow. 
" I soon found," wrote the head-master shortly afterward, " that 
a wild mountain colt had been submitted to my management." 
Byron did not take much interest in the prescribed studies and 
never became an accurate scholar. His reading, however, was 
extensive, and he learned French and Italian. He formed a 
few warm friendships. During one of his vacations, he fell in 
love with Mary Ann Chaworth, whose father the poet's grand- 
uncle had slain in a tavern brawl He was fifteen and she was 
two years older. Looking upon him as a boy, she did not take 
his attachment seriously, and a year later married another. To 
Byron, who loved her with all the ardor of his nature, it was 
a grievous disappointment; and years afterward, when he him- 
self stood at the altar, recollections of her disturbed his soul. 
The story is told in " The Dream," a poem of much beauty : — 

" The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth." 

375. At the University. — In 1805 Byron entered Trinity 
Collage, Cambridge, with which he was connected for nearly 
three years. Like many of his predecessors of independent 
genius — Bacon, Milton, Locke, Gibbon — he cared little for 
the university training. He was fond of outdoor sports and 
excelled in cricket, boxing, riding, and shooting. Along with 
a good deal of miscellaneous reading, he wrote verses, and in 
1808 he published a volume entitled " Hours of Idleness." The 
work gave little evidence of poetic genius, and was the sub- 
ject of a rasping critique in the Edinburgh Review. " The 
poesy of this young lord," it was said with some justice, " be- 
longs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to per- 
mit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of 
verse with so few deviations in either direction from that ex- 
act standard." 

376. " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers."— While 



214 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

affecting contempt for public opinion, Byron was always 
acutely sensitive to adverse criticism and the exasperating at- 
tack of the Edinburgh Review stung him like a blow, rousing 
him to fury. The result was, a little later, the furious and in- 
discriminate onslaught known as " English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers." " Prepare," he shouted, — 

"Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish right or wrong; 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song." 

The first edition was exhausted in a month. Though violent, 
indiscriminate, and often unjust, the satire indicated something 
of his latent power. 

377. " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."— In 1809, after a 
few weeks of wild revel at his ancestral seat of Newstead Ab- 
bey, he set out upon his travels and visited Portugal, Spain, 
Greece and Turkey. His restless spirit found some degree of 
satisfaction in roving from place to place. While continuing 
to lead an ill-regulated life, he carried with him the eyes of a 
keen observer. and the sentiments of a great poet. His expe- 
rience and observation are given in the first two cantos of 
" Childe Harold's Pilgrimage." Though he affirmed that Childe 
Harold is a fictitious character, it is impossible not to identify 
him with the poet himself. 

The poem is written in Spenserian stanza, and the antiquated 
style which he affected at first was soon cast aside. It opened 
a new field, and its rich descriptions seized the public fancy. It 
ran through seven editions in four weeks, and to use the 
author's words, " He woke up one morning to find himself 
famous." 

378. Poetical Romances. — The other results of his East- 
ern travels are " The Giaour," " The Bride of Abydos," " The 
Corsair," and " Lara " — poetical romances of passion and vio- 
lence, which were received with outbursts of applause. They 
equalled or surpassed Scott in his own field — a fact which he 
had the judgment to recognize and the manliness to confess. 
" The Bride of Abydos " contains, in its opening lines, a beauti- 



LORD BYRON. 215 

ful imitation of Mignon's song in Goethe's "Wilhelm Meis- 
ter": — 

" Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime !" 

379. Life in London. — Byron had returned to England 
in 1812, after an absence of two years ; and while the various 
works mentioned were appearing, he led a fashionable and dis- 
sipated life in London. When the right mood was on him, he 
had the power of making himself highly entertaining. His 
presence was striking. " As for poets," says Scott, " I have 
seen all the best of my time and country ; and though Burns had 
the most glorious eye imaginable, I never thought any of them 
could come up to an artist's notion of the character, except 
Byron. His countenance is a thing to dream of." 

Byron w r as naturally idolized by women; but never discern- 
ing the nobler elements of their character, he set a low estimate 
upon them. " I regard them," he says, " as very pretty but in- 
ferior creatures, who are as little in their place at our tables 
as they would be in our council chambers. ... I look upon 
them as grown-up children." He was destitute of the power 
of characterization as we see it in our best novelists and poets. 
His heroines are all of one type — Oriental beauties, loving and 
passionate, but without intellectual aspiration and true wom- 
anly tenderness. 

380. Marriage and Separation. — In 1815 he married Miss 
Milbanke ; but there was no love on either side, and it proved 
an ill-sorted match. Though an excellent woman, his wife was 
exacting and unsympathetic. Impatient at his late hours, she 
inquired when he was going to leave off writing verses. On 
the other hand, he was fitful, violent and immoral. 

At the end of a year, and after the birth of their daughter 
Ada, she went to her father's, and informed Byron that she 
did not intend ever to return to him. The separation created 
a sensation; and the burden of blame, as was no doubt just, 
fell upon him. He sank in popular esteem as suddenly as he 



2i6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

had risen. He dared not go to the theatres for fear of being 
hissed, nor to Parliament for fear of being insulted. His poem 
" Fare Thee Well " was addressed to his wife after their sepa- 
ration. An acquaintance with the facts makes it hard for us to 
believe in the sincerity of what would otherwise be a pathetic 
poem : — 

" Though my many faults defaced me, 
Could no other arm be found 
Than the one which once embraced me, 
To inflict a cureless wound? 

" Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not, 
Love may sink by slow decay, 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 
Hearts can thus be torn away." 

381. Voluntary Exile. — The result of the opprobrium, 

which this unfortunate event in his life brought upon him, 
is given in his own words : " I felt that, if what was whispered 
and muttered and murmured was true, I was unfit for Eng- 
land; if false, England was unfit for me." Accordingly, in 
1816, disappointed and burdened at heart, he left his native 
shore never to return. 

" I depart, 
Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, 
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye." 

382. New Era of Authorship. — With this voluntary exile 
he entered upon a new era of authorship, in which he at- 
tained to the. full maturity of his powers. At Geneva he wrote 
the third, and at Venice the fourth canto of " Childe Harold," 
and at once placed himself among the great masters of English 
verse. Landscapes of unsurpassed majesty and beauty are por- 
trayed; history lives again; our feelings are stirred with deep 
emotion. Treasures are found on every page. For ex- 
ample : — 

" The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! O night, 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 



LORD BYRON. 217 

Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud." 

Or again : — 

" There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar: 
I love not man the less, but nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal." 

383. " Prisoner of Chilion."— At Geneva he wrote the 
touching story of Bonnivard, " The Prisoner of Chilion," which 
belongs to the group of romantic tales. There is no resem- 
blance between the hero of the poem and the historic prisoner 
of Chilion, of whom Byron knew little or nothing at the time 
he wrote. " When the poem was composed," he frankly con- 
fesses, " I was not sufficiently aware of the history of Bon- 
nivard, or I should have endeavored to dignify the subject by 
an attempt to celebrate his courage and his virtues." It is a 
pathetic story, with some beautiful lines : — 

" Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 
Which round about the wave enthrals." 

384. Various Works. — From Switzerland, Byron went to 
Italy, living for a time at Venice, Ravenna, Pisa, and Genoa. 



218 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

His Italian life was voluptuous and immoral. In every place 
of sojourn, however, he continued to write, composing many 
works of high excellence. " Cain " is a powerful drama. One 
of the characters is Lucifer, of whom Byron apologetically says, 
" It was difficult for me to make him talk like a clergyman upon 
the same subjects." " Manfred " and " Sardanapalus " are 
other dramas. The " Vision of Judgment," a satire on George 
the Third and " Bob Southey," is not reverent, but it is the 
wittiest production of its class in our language. " Don Juan," 
his longest poem, is a conglomerate of wit, satire, and immo- 
rality, relieved at intervals by sage reflection and delicate poetic 
sentiment. It shows at once the author's genius and degrada- 
tion. Perhaps he never wrote more beautiful lines than 
these : — 

" 'Tis sweet to hear, 
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, 

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 

By distance mellowed o'er the water's sweep. 

'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 

From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 

" 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 

Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come. 

'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, 

Or lulled by falling waters ; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words." 

385. Critique. — Notwithstanding its power and the fre- 
quent beauty of single passages, Byron's poetry has serious de- 
fects. The rapidity with which he wrote prevented a high de- 
gree of artistic finish. Its. structure and rhyme are sometimes 
whimsical or perverse. It is lacking in high seriousness, without 
which poetry never reaches the greatest heights. It is, in- 
deed, a reflection of the poet's life, and to that extent may be 



LORD BYRON. 219 

pronounced true; but because his life was perverse and wrong, 
his poetry is lacking in divine truth. It brings no helpful mes- 
sage to humanity. His criticism of life is destructive; he 
never reached the wisdom that replaces evil with good and in 
view of these facts, he may justly be said to belong to the 
Satanic school of letters. "He refreshes us," to use the words 
of Carlyle, " not with the divine fountain, but too often with 
vulgar strong waters, stimulating indeed to the taste, but soon 
ending in dislike, or even nausea." 

Though few English authors were ever more popular at 
home, Byron's influence on the Continent was still greater. 
" He simply took possession of the Continent of Europe and 
kept it," says Saintsbury. " He was one of the dominant in- 
fluences and determining causes of the French Romantic move- 
ment; in Germany, though the failure of literary talents and ac- 
tivity of the first order in that country early in the century 
made his school less important, he had great power over Heine,- 
its one towering genius ; and he was almost the sole master of 
young Russia, young Italy, young Spain, in poetry. Nor, 
though his active and direct influence has of course been ex- 
hausted by time, can his reputation on the Continent be said 
ever to have waned." 

386. The Greek Revolution. — At length the aimless and 
voluptuous life he was leading filled him with satiety. He had 
drained the cup of pleasure to its dregs of bitterness. He be- 
gan to long for a life of action. " If I live ten years longer," 
he wrote in 1822, " you will see that it is not all over with me. 
I don't mean in literature, for that is nothing — and I do not 
think it was my vocation; but I shall do something." 

Greece was at this time struggling for independence from 
Turkish tyranny. Byron was a friend of liberty ; the struggling 
Greeks touched his sympathies. Accordingly, he embarked for 
Greece in 1823 to aid them in their struggle. As he was about 
to depart, the shadow of coming disaster fell upon him. " I 
have a sort of boding," he said to some friends, " that we see 
each other for the last time, as something tells me I shall never 
return from Greece." 

He was received at Missolonghi with salvos of musketry and 



220 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

music. He received a military commission, and in his subse- 
quent movements displayed ability and courage. But before he 
had been of much assistance t3 the Greeks, he was seized with 
a virulent fever, and died April 9, 1824. The cities of Greece 
contended for his body; but it was taken to England, where, 
sepulture in Westminster Abbey having been refused, it was 
conveyed to the village church of Hucknall. 

387. Sense of Failure. — Such lives are unutterably sad. 
Byron possessed what most men spend their lives for in vain 
— genius, rank, power, fame ; yet he lived a wretched man. 
His peace of mind was broken, and his body prematurely 
worn by vicious passions. He was himself oppressed with a 
sense of failure ; and less than three months before his death 
he wrote : — 

" My days are in the yellow leaf ; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief, 
Are mine alone!" 

Life had lost its charm ; and all he sought was a martial 
death in that land of ancient heroes : — 

" Seek out, less often sought than found, 
A soldier's grave — for thee the best ; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
And take thy rest." 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Moore, " Life of Byron," Nichol, " Life of Byron " (English Men 
of Letters), Noel, "Life of Byron" (Great Writers Series), Mat- 
thew Arnold, "Essays in Criticism," Macaulay, "Essay on Byron," 
Lowell, " Among My Books," Peabody, North American Review, 
31 ; 167. 

A review of " The Dream." A critique of the " Hours of Idle- 
ness " : was the Edinburgh Revig.iv right in its estimate Examples 



LORD BYRON. 221 

of witty caricature from " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." 
An outline of each of the poetical romances, " The Giaour," " The 
Bride of Abydos," " The Corsair," and " Lara." A critique of the 
poem " Fare Thee Well." Make a collection of choice extracts from 
the third and fourth cantos of " Childe Harold." The story of 
" Cain.' A criticism of " Manfred.' A review of the " Vision of 
Judgment." A critique of the " Hebrew Melodies." Illustrate the 
difference between Byron's and Wordsworth's attitude toward 
nature. Compare the poetical romances with Scott's " Marmion " : 
was Scott right when he said, "Byron bate me"? 

"The Prisoner of Chillon" will be found among the selections 
of Part II. 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

388. A Parallel. — In striking contrast with the restless, 
passionate life of Byron stands the peaceful, uneventful life of 
Wordsworth. Instead of furious, tormenting passions, there is 
a self-poised, peaceful life of contemplation. Byron imparted 
to the beautiful or sublime scenes of nature the colorings of his 
turbulent thoughts and violent emotions; Wordsworth brought 
to mountain, stream and flower the docility of a reverent and 
loving spirit. His soul was open to the lessons of the outward 
world, which to him was pervaded by an invisible presence. 
In his pride and misanthropy, Byron felt no sympathy with the 
sufferings and struggles of humanity. His censorious eye per- 
ceived only the foibles and frailties that lie on the surface. 
With a far nobler spirit and a keener insight, Wordsworth 
discerned beauty and grandeur in human life and aspired to be 
helpful to his fellow-men. While Byron trampled on the laws 
of morality, ruined his home and turned the joys of life to 
ashes, Wordsworth lived in the midst of quiet domestic hap- 
piness — humble indeed, but glorified by fidelity, friendship, 
and love. Byron died in early manhood enslaved by evil hab- 
its and oppressed with the emptiness of life; Wordsworth 
reached an honored old age, and passed away upheld with 
precious hopes. The one may be admired for. his power and 
meteoric splendor; the other will be honored and loved for his 
upright character, his human sympathy, and his helpful teach- 
ings. 

389. Childhood. — William Wordsworth was born at 
Cockermouth in Cumberland County, April 7, 1770, of an an- 
cient family. His violent and moody temper as a child filled his 
mother with anxiety about his future. He in no way dis- 
tinguished himself at school, though some of the verses he then 
composed were well spoken of. 




Engraved by J. Bombey after tbe painting by W. Boxall, London. Published 1832. 



d/*4tnrPr«srSfc- 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 223 

390. Influence of Nature. — At the age of seventeen he 
entered Cambridge, where he gave no promise of his future 
greatness. His genius developed slowly. It was not from 
books, but from nature, that he derived the greatest inspiration 
and help. The celebrated Lake District, in which he was born 
and in which his school-days and the greater part of his matu- 
rity were spent, is a region of varied and beautiful scenery. 
With its mountains, forests, and lakes, it is grander than the 
typical English landscape, yet without the overpowering sub- 
limity of Switzerland. It was a region specially suited to 
awaken and develop the peculiar powers of Wordsworth. He 
moved among the natural beauties of the country with an ill- 
defined but exquisite pleasure. In his own words : — 

" The ever-living universe, 
Turn where I might, was opening out its glories; 
And the independent spirit of pure youth 
Called forth at every season new delights, 
Spread round my steps like sunshine o'er green fields." 

391. Period of Indecision. — -In 1791 Wordsworth took 
the degree of Bachelor of Arts, and left the university without 
having decided upon a vocation. " He did not feel himself 
good enough for the church," he said years afterward; "he felt 
that his mind was not properly disciplined for that holy office, 
and that the struggle between his conscience and his impulses 
would have made life a torture." He was disinclined to the 
law; and though he fancied that he had talents for the pro- 
fession of arms, he feared that he might fall a prey to dis- 
ease in foreign lands. He passed some time in London with- 
out a definite aim and also without much profit. He felt out of 
place amidst the rush and din of the city. Like the " Farmer 
of Tilsbury Vale," whom he afterward described : — 

" In the throng of the town like a stranger is he, 
Like one whose own country's far over the sea ; 
And nature, while through the great city he hies, 
Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise." 



224 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

392. Revolutionary Sympathies. — After a few months he 
went to France for the purpose of learning the language. His 
sympathies, which had been with the revolutionists, were inten- 
sified by an acquaintance at Orleans with the republican gen- 
eral Beaupuis. Returning to Paris, Wordsworth contemplated 
placing himself at the head of the Girondist party — a step 
that would inevitably have brought him to the guillotine. From 
this danger he was saved by his friends, who, not in sympathy 
with his republicanism, stopped his allowance, and thus com- 
pelled him to return to England. The excesses into which the 
Revolution ran were a rude shock to him. He was driven to 
the verge of scepticism : — ■ 

" Even the visible universe 
Fell under the dominion of a taste 
Less spiritual, with microscopic view 
Was scanned, as I had scanned the moral world." 

But his thoughtful nature could not rest in unbelief. A 
sympathetic study of nature, the beautiful devotion of his sister 
Dorothy, and a deeper insight into the lives of men, restored his 
healthfulness and peace of mind. As he advanced in years, he 
gave up the ardent republican hopes of his youth, and settled 
down into a staid conservatism. 

393. First Volume.— The first volume of Wordsworth is 
entitled " Lyrical Ballads." It was published in 1798, and con- 
tained, besides Coleridge's " Ancient Mariner," and several pieces 
that were ridiculed for triviality, " We Are Seven," " Expostu- 
lation and Reply," " The Tables Turned," and above all " Tin- 
tern Abbey," all of which contain the essential principles of 
Wordsworth's poetry. Indeed, the " Tintern Abbey " more 
than any other single poem contains the revelation that the poet 
had to make to the world. The following passage, besides 
presenting the poet's view of nature, is one of great beauty : — 

" And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts : a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 225 

And the round ocean and the living- air 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
And rolls through all things." 

394. Ridicule and Satire. — Unfortunately the trivial 
pieces attracted most attention, and the work was received with 
coldness and ridicule. " The Idiot Boy " — a delightful poem 
to those who can feel the pathos of childish imbecility and the 
beauty of maternal love and solicitude — was the subject of 
one of the crudest passages in the " English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers." Speaking of Wordsworth, whom he denominates 
" a mild apostate from poetic rule," Byron continues : — 

" Thus when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
The idiot mother of an idiot boy, 
A moon-struck silly lad who lost his way, 
And like his bard confounded night with day, 
So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 
And each adventure so sublimely tells, 
That all who view the idiot in his glory, 
Conceive the bard the hero of the story." 

395- In Germany. — Immediately after the publication of 
the " Lyrical Ballads " Wordsworth and his sister went to 
Germany in order to improve their imperfect acquaintance with 
the German language. They passed the winter at Goslar ; but 
as they seem to have made no acquaintances, their means of 
advancement was confined to reading German books privately. 

The winter was severe, and their comforts were few. 
Wordsworth says : " I slept in a room over a passage that was 
not ceiled. The people of the house used to say, rather unfeel- 
ingly, that they expected that I should be frozen to death some 
night." Notwithstanding these discomforts, his muse was ac- 
tive, and he produced some of his most charming and char- 
acteristic pieces, among which are " Lucy Gray," " Ruth," 
" Nutting," and the " Poet's Epitaph." It was here, too, that 
" The Prelude," the poetical autobiography of the author's 
mental growth, was begun. " ' The Prelude,' " says a biogra- 



226 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

pher, " is a book of good augury for human nature. We feel 
in reading it as if the stock of mankind were sound. The soul 
seems going on from strength to strength by the mere devel- 
opment of her inborn power." 

396. Poetical Canons. — Wordsworth returned to England 
in 1799 and settled at Grasmere in the Lake District, in which 
he spent the rest of his life. The following year he published 
a new edition of the " Lyrical Ballads," containing many new 
pieces and the famous preface in which he laid down his poet- 
ical canons. These canons may be briefly stated as follows : 
1. Subjects are to be taken from rustic or common life, " be- 
cause in that condition the essential passions of the heart find 
a better soil in which they can attain their maturity, are less 
under restraint, and speak plainer and more emphatic lan- 
guage." 2. The language of common life, purified from its de- 
fects, is to be adopted, because men of that station " hourly 
communicate with the best objects from which the best part of 
language is originally derived; and because, . . . being 
less under the action of social vanity, they convey their feelings 
and notions in simple and unelaborated expressions." 3. There 
neither is nor can be any essential difference between the lan- 
guage of prose and metrical composition." 

397. Elements of Truth. — The most, perhaps, that can be 
said in favor of these principles is that, without being ab- 
solutely true, they contain elements of truth. Like Burns, 
Wordsworth has conferred a blessing on humanity in pointing 
out the beauty of commonplace objects and incidents. We 
cannot spare " We Are Seven," or " Michael," which ought to 
be one of our most popular poems. His naturalness of diction 
is to be commended. Yet it must be said that Wordsworth 
sometimes carries his principles to a ridiculous extent. When 
he hits upon phrases like "dear brother Jim," and objects like 
" skimmed milk " and — 

" A household tub, like one of those 
Which women use to wash their clothes," 

his greatest admirers are forced to grieve. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 227 

398. Life in the Lake District. — Wordsworth's life in the 
Lake District was characterized by great simplicity. There 
were no stirring events, no great changes. His resources were 
increased by the payment of an old debt due his father's estate. 
His marriage, in 1802, to Miss Mary Hutchinson, brought into 
his home a real helpmate. Though decidedly domestic in her 
turn, she was not without poetic feeling and appreciated her 
husband's genius. 

399. Plain Living and High Thinking. — With true fem- 
inine tact she presided over the poet's home, and softened as far 
as possible the unconscious egotism into which his retirement 
and contemplation had betrayed him. Dorothy Wordsworth 
shared their home. The life of this happy family was an illus- 
tration of " plain living and high thinking." Much time was 
spent in the open air, and every foot of ground in the neighbor- 
hood was traA r ersed by the poet and his sister. A large part 
of his verse was composed during these daily rambles. While 
extending a cordial welcome to congenial friends, — De Quin- 
cey, Coleridge, Wilson, Southey, and others, — he cared little 
for neighborhood gossip. To him it was a fruitless waste of 
time. As he tells us in the sonnets entitled " Personal 
Talk " : — 

" Better than such discourse doth silence long, 
Long, barren silence, square with my desire; 
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
In the loved presence of my cottage fire, 
And listen to the flapping of the flame, 
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong." 

This quiet, humble, reflective life is beautiful; yet it has its 
objectionable features. It leads to narrow and one-sided views 
of life. It is not the way in which to develop a strong or he- 
roic character. Yet it was adapted to Wordsworth's genius 
and produced a rich fruitage. 

400. " The Happy Warrior." — The first great sorrow that 
came into the poet's life was the death of his brother John, 
captain of an East Indiaman. His vessel was wrecked in 1805 
and sank with the captain at his post of duty. He had sev- 



228 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

eral years previously spent a few months at Grasmere, and was 
looking forward to the time when he might settle there for 
life. A strong attachment existed between him and his 
brother. The same year saw the death of Nelson at Trafalgar. 
The death of the hero brought grief to the national heart. 
Combining the traits of his brother John and Admiral Nelson, 
Wordsworth composed " The Happy Warrior/" a poem of 
great dignity and weight — a veritable manual of greatness. 
Who is the happy warrior ? He who owes, — 

"To virtue every triumph that he knows; 
Who, if he rise to station of command, 
Rises by open means ; and there will stand 
On honorable terms, or else retire, 
And in himself possess his own desire; 
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 
And therefore does not stoop nor lie in wait 
For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 
Whom they must follow, on whose head must fall, 
Like showers of manna, if they come at all." 

401. Notable Poems. : — Every year increased the number 
of notable poems. There are two or three that deserve especial 
mention as embodying peculiar views — to some*extent Words- 
worth's philosophy of life. In a little poem called " The Rain- 
bow," he says : — 

" My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky : 

So was it when my life began; 

So is it now I am a man ; 

So be it when I shall grow old, 

Or let me die ! 
The child is father of the man; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety." 

Far more is here expressed than appears at first reading. 
" Wordsworth holds," to adopt the excellent interpretation by 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 229 

Myers, " that the instincts and pleasures of a healthy childhood 
sufficiently indicate the lines on which our maturer character 
should be formed. The joy which began in the mere sense of 
existence should be maintained by hopeful faith ; the simplicity 
which began in inexperience should be recovered by medita- 
tion; the love which originated in the family circle should ex- 
pand itself over the race of men." In the " Ode to Duty," one 
of Wordsworth's noblest productions, we meet with this " gen- 
ial sense of youth : " — 

" Serene will be our days and bright, 
And happy will our nature be, 
When love is an unerring' light, 
And joy its own security." 

402. " Ode on Immortality." — In the " Ode on Immor- 
tality," in ^ which we have perhaps the highest attainment of 
poetry in the nineteenth century, he makes use of the Platonic 
doctrine of the preexistence of the soul to account for the glory 
that hovers over the visible world in childhood. As a child 
looks upon the various objects of earth and sky, he uncon- 
sciously invests them, the poet says, with the splendor of the 
spiritual world from which he has come. But as life advances, 
these recollections of a previous existence become fainter and 
fainter, and at last the world degenerates into a commonplace 
reality.' Now read these splendid lines : — 

" Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: 
The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy. 
But he beholds the light and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy ; 



230 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The youth, who daily further from the east 
Must travel, still is nature's priest, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day." 

403. At Rydal Mount. — In 18 13 Wordsworth removed to 
Rydal Mount, where he spent the rest of his life. With in- 
creasing family — three sons and two daughters had been born 
unto him — came increasing wants and expenditures. His 
good fortune did not desert him. He was appointed distributer 
of stamps for the county of Westmoreland — an office that 
brought him little labor, but five. hundred pounds a year. 

The following year he published " The Excursion," a tedious 
and prosaic poem relieved here and there with passages of sur- 
passing beauty. It was coldly received, and proved a financial 
loss. Jeffrey began a famous review with the contemptuous 
sentence, " This will never do." Up to this time Wordsworth 
had been the subject of continuously unfavorable criticism. 
No other writer, perhaps, ever had so protracted a struggle to 
gain a proper recognition. 

404. Confidence in His Genius. — But through all this 
long period of misrepresentation and detraction, Wordsworth 
did not lose confidence in himself. His genius was its own 
sufficient witness. He felt a pity for the ignorance of the world, 
but looked forward to a time when the merits of his poetry 
would be recognized. Writing to a friend, he says : " Let me 
confine myself to my object, which is to make you, my dear 
friend, as easy hearted as myself with respect to these poems. 
Trouble not yourself upon their present reception. Of what 
moment is that compared with what I trust is their destiny? 
— to console the afflicted; to add sunshine to daylight, by mak- 
ing the happy happier; to teach the young and the gracious of 
every age to see, to think and feel, and therefore to become 
more actively and securely virtuous; this is their office, which 
I trust they will faithfully perform long after we (that is, all 
that is mortal of us) are mouldered in our graves." What in 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 231 

many a man would savor of egotism comes from the lips of 
Wordsworth with the calm dignity of conscious strength. 

405. Recognition and Honor. — His hopes were not dis- 
appointed. The latter years of his life brought him great pop- 
ularity and honor. In 1839 the University of Oxford con- 
ferred upon him the degree of Doctor of Civil Law; three 
years later the government granted him a pension of three 
hundred pounds; and upon the death of Southey he became 
poet laureate. His pure and peaceful life came to an end April 
23, 1850. " And surely of him, if of any one, we may think as of 
a man who was so in accord with nature, so at one with the 
very soul of things, that there can be no mansion of the uni- 
verse which shall not be to him a home, no Governor who will 
not accept him among his servants, and satisfy him with love 
and peace." 

406. His Natural Gifts. — Wordsworth's mind was evenly 
balanced; thought, imagination, and conscience all worked to- 
gether in harmony. This fact gave sanity not only to his life, 
but also to his poetry. His was not, as some persons have 
supposed, a mild, gentle nature without energy. He had a strong 
will and deep feelings, but through stern self-discipline he 
had brought them under rational control. The power of his in- 
tellectual and emotional nature is shown in numberless passages, 
in which he reaches the sublimest heights of poetry — regions 
far beyond the attainment of any but mighty spirits. There is 
much that is commonplace in his poetry — great tracts of dul- 
ness; but in his moments of fully aroused imaginative energy, 
he is unsurpassed, perhaps, by any other English poet except 
Shakespeare. 

407. Keen Observation. — Like other lovers of nature, 
Wordsworth had a keen eye and ear for its beauties. His ob- 
servations are minute and accurate. Forms, colors, sounds, 
are all vividly caught and reproduced in his poetry. To take 
but a single illustration, we read in " A Night-Piece," dating 
from 1798, the following: — 

" The traveller looks up — the clouds are split 
Asunder, — and above his head he sees 



232 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens. 
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, 
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss 
Drive as she drives ; how fast they wheel away, 
Yet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree, 
But they are silent ; — still they roll along 
Immeasurably distant ; and the vault 
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds." 

408. Spiritual Side o£ Nature. — But Wordsworth was 
more than a mere observer. He was not satisfied to report the 
outward appearance of things, as were Scott, and, in a large 
measure, Byron. He looked upon nature as interpenetrated by 
a divine, conscious spirit that could speak to his soul. Beneath 
the outward beauties of the world he tried to catch its spiritual 
message. To him nature was a great teacher, surpassing the 
storehouses of human wisdom : — 

"Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife; 
Come, hear the woodland linnet, 
How sweet his music ! on my life, 
There's more of wisdom in it. 

"And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! 
He, too, is no mean preacher : 
Come forth into the light of things, 
Let Nature be your teacher. 

" One impulse from a vernal wood 
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 
Than all the sages can." 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Knight, "Life of Wordsworth" (3 vols.), Symington, "Words- 
worth, His Life and Works," Myers, " Life of Wordsworth " (Eng- 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 233 

lish Men of Letters), Coleridge, " Biographia Literaria," De Quin- 
cey, " Literary Reminiscences," Lowell, " My Study Windows," 
Cranch, Atlantic Monthly, 45; 241, Whipple, North American Re- 
view, 59; 352. 

The principles of Wordsworth's poetry as exemplified in " We 
are Seven," " Expostulation and Reply," and " The Tables Turned." 
Wordsworth's attitude to nature in " Tintern Abbey." The story 
of " Ruth." The poet's residence at Cambridge as portrayed in 
Book Third of " The Prelude." The influence of nature upon him, 
" The Prelude," Book First and Second. A review of the poem 
" Michael." A study of " The Happy Warrior." A critique of the 
" Ode to Duty." Read " At the Grave of Burns," the three poems 
" To the Daisy," " The Solitary Reaper," " She was a Phantom of 
Delight," " The Primrose of the Rock," " Yarrow Revisited " : 
What Wordsworthian characteristics do they exemplify? The 
poetry of Wordsworth, De Quincey, "Literary Criticism"? 

The "Tintern Abbey" and " Intimations of Immortality" are 
given among the selections of Part II. 



234 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

409. Noteworthy Characteristics. — De Quincey was, like 
Pope, of insignificant stature, but of a singularly intelligent 
face. A noble brow rose over his thin, finely chiselled features, 
and his blue eyes glowed with an unfathomable depth. He was 
nervously shy, and, like Hawthorne, almost morbidly averse to 
every sort of publicity. His mental activity was prodigious, and 
at his best he deserves to rank as one of the most delightful 
English talkers. Both as a talker and writer he used " an 
awfu' sicht o' words," as a shrewd Scotch servant said of 
him; but they were so fastidiously chosen and so musically ut- 
tered as to be little less than charming. He was a unique per- 
sonality ; and beyond almost all other writers he has infused his 
character — idiosyncrasies and all — into his writings. 

410. Parentage. — Thomas de Quincey was born in Man- 
chester, the fifth of eight children, Aug. 15, 1785. His father 
was " a plain English merchant " of large means, esteemed 
for his great integrity and strongly attached to literary pursuits. 
" My mother," De Quincey says, " I may mention with honor, 
as still more highly gifted; for though unpretending to the 
name and honors of a literary woman, I. shall presume to call 
her (what many literary women are not) an intellectual 
woman." Her letters are characterized by strong sense and 
idiomatic grace. 

411. At School. — In 1796 De Quincey was placed in the 
public school of Bath, a town to which his mother had re- 
cently removed. He brought to his new surroundings an un- 
usual amount of information gathered from miscellaneous read- 
ing. In Latin he was recognized as little short of a prodigy 
and was weekly " paraded for distinction at the supreme tri- 
bunal of the school." The result may easily be foreseen. 
Some of his jealous comrades inaugurated what he described 




A photograph after painting by Archer. 



mc^u^ 9*-°c4 



(MnsC 



CMj 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 235 

as a state of " warfare at a public school." He was threatened 
with immediate " annihilation ; " but fortunately for English 
literature, the threat was never carried out. 

412. Entry into the World.- — The year 1800 De Quincey 
designates as the period of his entry into the world. He was 
invited by Lord Westfort, a young friend of his own age, to 
accompany him on a visit to Ireland. The various experiences 
of the next few months lifted him to what he calls " premature 
manhood," for he was yet but fifteen years of age. He was 
invited to court entertainments ; he passed a short time in " the 
nation of London." More than all, he met on a boat a young 
lady of great beauty and culture, who inspired him with a new 
and uplifting reverence for woman. This incident fixed, as he 
thought, a great era of change in his life. " Ever after, 
throughout the period of youth," he said, " I was jealous of 
my own demeanor, reserved and awe-struck, in the presence 
of woman; reverencing often not so much them as my own 
ideal of woman latent in them. For I carried about with me 
the idea, to which I often seemed to see an approximation, of — 

' A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command/ " 

413. At the University. — In December, 1803, De Quincey 
entered Worcester College, Oxford. He was connected with 
the university for five years, but finally left it without a de- 
gree. He led a life of great retirement. He calculates that for 
the first two years he spoke less than a hundred words. But 
his morbid seclusion and silence were not spent in idleness. 
He had an insatiable thirst for reading and books ; and to in- 
crease his library he sorely stinted his wardrobe. He lamented 
the excessive devotion to Latin and Greek, and the utter neg- 
lect of English literature at the university. He stoutly main- 
tained the superiority of modern over ancient literature. " We 
engage," he said, " to produce many scores of passages from 
Chaucer, not exceeding fifty to eighty lines, which contain 
more of picturesque simplicity, more tenderness, more fidelity 
to nature, more truth of character than can be matched in all 
the ' Iliad ' or the ' Odyssey.' " 



236 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

414. A Victim of Opium. — In 1808 he left Oxford, to 
which he professed to owe nothing. Of its vast riches he took 
nothing away. Once seeking relief from neuralgic pain, he re- 
sorted to laudanum; and, like Coleridge, he became henceforth 
an opium fiend. It never gained quite so complete a mastery 
over him as over his illustrious contemporary; but for more 
than fifty years, sometimes in enormous quantities, it remained 
a necessity with him. He became, in some measure, the apolo- 
gist of opium, to which he addresses more than one eloquent but 
unpleasing apostrophe. 

415. At Grasmere. — In November, 1809, De Quincey took 
up his residence at Grasmere, occupying the pretty cottage that 
Wordsworth had just left for Allan Bank. Here, first as a 
bachelor and afterward as a married man, he lived till his re- 
moval to Edinburgh in 1830. He devoted himself to study, par- 
ticularly to German metaphysics, with great assiduity. He 
associated on terms of intimacy with all the other celebrities of 
the Lake District, including- Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, 
and Wilson. For a time he was almost utterly prostrated from 
the use of opium. A quart of ruby-colored laudanum in a de- 
canter and a book of German metaphysics by its side — these 
he mentions as sure indications of his being in the neighbor- 
hood. 

416. Life in the Lake District.— In his "Literary Rem- 
iniscences," one of the most interesting volumes of his col- 
lected works, De Quincey dwells principally on this period of 
his life. Nowhere else do we find life in the Lake District so 
finely portrayed. The sketches of Coleridge and Wordsworth 
are extended and exquisite studies, though at times there is a 
suggestion of venom in his treatment of these great writers. 
His early reverence for Wordsworth, whose hospitality he fre- 
quently enjoyed, was little short of idolatry; but in later years, 
owing apparently to the poet's self-complacent unresponsive- 
ness, De Quincey became estranged almost to the point of 
bitterness. 

417- " Confessions of an Opium Eater." — The inherited 
means, which De Quincey had hitherto lived upon, were now 
exhausted. Under the stress of domestic necessities, he roused 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 237 

himself, by a prodigious effort, from the intellectual torpor to 
which the opium habit had reduced him. In 182 1 he began his 
literary career with his " Confessions of an Opium Eater," 
which appeared in the London Magazine anonymously. The 
" Confessions " were honestly autobiographical ; and besides 
many interesting facts of his early life, they told of the growing 
power of the terrible drug, and described, in passages of al- 
most incomparable splendor, the mighty visions that came to 
him waking and sleeping. The articles, both for their style and 
matter, attracted general attention, and opened to him the best 
magazines of the day. He wrote about one hundred and fifty 
articles, which taken together, with the exception of two or 
three unimportant books, constitute his literary remains. 

418. De Quincey and Carlyle. — In 1824 he published an 
article on Goethe, based on Carlyle's translation of " Wilhelm 
Meister." The article was chiefly an onslaught on the great 
German, who was represented as a tiresome and immoral im- 
postor. But the translator himself came in for a good share 
of criticism, his Scotticisms, his mistakes in German, and his 
awkward prose being dwelt upon. The review accidentally fell 
into the surly Scotchman's hands ; and in his " Reminis- 
cences," where he speaks of the matter, he more than quits the 
score with a sketch in aqua fortis. De Quincey, he says, 
" was a pretty little creature, full of wire-drawn ingenuities, 
bankrupt enthusiasms, bankrupt pride, with the finest silver- 
toned low voice, and most elaborate gently winding courtesies 
and ingenuities in conversation. ... A bright, ready, 
and melodious talker, but in the end inconclusive and long- 
winded. One of the smallest man figures I ever saw; shaped 
like a pair of tongs, and hardly above five feet in all. When 
he sate, you would have taken him by candlelight for the 
beautifullest little child; blue-eyed, sparkling face, had there 
not been something, too, which said, ' Eccovi — this child has 
been in hell.' " 

419- " Murder as a Fine Art." — After 1826 his literary 
career is transferred from London to Edinburgh. Through 
the influence of Wilson, with whom he had roamed over the 
valleys and mountains of the Lake District, he became a con- 



238 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

tributor to Blackwood. Besides articles on Lessing and Kant 
he published in 1827 his famous essay " On Murder Considered 
as One of the Fine Arts." It is a piece of sustained wit and 
humor. He deals with murder as some critics deal with liter- 
ature; he admits that morally it is not exactly to be approved; 
but " when tried by principles of taste, it turns out sometimes to 
be a very meritorious performance." 

420. Suffering and Struggle. — In 1830 De Quincey moved 
his family to Edinburgh, and ten years later he occupied the 
cottage of Lasswade, a few miles out of the city. His life was 
now one of almost unintermitting suffering and struggle. In 
1835 he lost his faithful wife Margaret, to whom he was deeply 
attached, and who, throughout the sore trials of her domestic 
life, had steadfastly maintained her character as a brave and 
gentle woman. His health was frequently frail, and at times 
he succumbed to his appetite for opium. He avoided society, 
and it was only with difficulty that he could be entrapped for a 
dinner party. But through it all he continued to produce, at 
the rate of half a dozen a year, that marvellous series of papers 
that have given him an imperishable place m English litera- 
ture. Besides those already mentioned, the following are 
worthy of special attention : " Suspiria de Profundis," " The 
English Mail Coach," " Revolt of the Tartars," "On War," 
" Joan of Arc," " Style," " Rhetoric," " Language." 

421. Qualities of Style. — De Quincey rejects the common 
opinion that style is the dress of thought. To him it is some- 
thing far more profound. Adopting a happy phrase of Words- 
worth's, he defines style as " the incarnation of thought." He 
bestowed exceeding care on his composition. He had an ex- 
quisite sense of the force of words and beauty of form. He 
had a singularly sensitive ear and took great pains, as he tells 
us, not only to avoid cacophony, but also to frame musical sen- 
tences. For precision in the use of language and for melody 
in the structure of his periods, De Quincey takes high rank 
among English writers. Less monotonous than Gibbon or Ma- 
caulay, his style varies, according to the changing thought, 
from the careless ease of colloquial forms to the sustained 
grandeur of impassioned eloquence. The Dream Fugue in 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 239 

" The English Mail Coach " may be described as a prose poem. 

422. Range of Subjects. — De Quincey did not begin his 
literary career until his mind was well stored with knowledge. 
His reading covered a wide field, including not only English lit- 
erature and English history, but also Greek and Latin literature, 
German metaphysics, and a whole multitude of unusual and 
nondescript works. His well-kept library numbered more than 
five thousand volumes. His writings cover a wide range of 
subjects and are peculiarly rich in their allusions. History, na- 
ture, art, poetry, music, are all called upon to grace the sub- 
stantial structure of his thought. His vocabulary is exceed- 
ingly copius; he not only drew on the native Saxon and Latin 
elements of our language, but ruthlessly lugged in Latin, Greek, 
French, German, or whatever other tongue furnished him with 
a fitting phrase. 

423. Literature of Knowledge and Power.— To De 
Quincey we owe an interesting distinction in literature — one 
that is readily applicable to his own writings. " There is first," 
he says, " the literature of knowledge, and, secondly, the litera- 
ture of power. The function of the first is to teach; the func- 
tion of the second is to move : the first is a rudder, the second 
an oar or a sail. The first speaks to the mere discursive un- 
derstanding; the second speaks ultimately, it may happen to the 
higher understanding or reason, but always through the affec- 
tions of pleasure and sympathy." To this latter kind of litera- 
ture belong those works of De Quincey — " The Confessions," 
" Suspiria," "English Mail Coach," " Murder as a Fine art," 
" Joan of Arc," and the " Autobiographical Sketches " and " Lit- 
erary Reminiscences " — by which he will retain a permanent 
place among great English writers. 

424. Frequent Digressions. — De Quincey can hardly be 
classed as a great thinker. He is ingenious and graceful rather 
than profound. He rarely submitted to the restraints of a 
strict logical method. His digressions are as frequent as those 
of Coleridge, but are held under better control : instead of run- 
ning entirely away with him, they always return and some- 
times felicitously, to the main subject in hand. He is conscious 
of his digressive style and sometimes makes humorous refer- 



240 ENGLISH- LITERATURE. 

ence to it. In his essay ' On War," after being switched off 
for a couple of pages, he returns to the main line of thought 
with the remark : " This digression, now, on anecdotes, is what 
the learned call an excursus, and I am afraid too long by half 
— not strictly in proportion. But don't mind that. I'll make 
it all right by being too short upon something else at the next 
opportunity; and then nobody can complain." 

425. An Intellectual Life. — De Quincey's life was pre- 
eminently intellectual. " Without breach of truth or modesty," 
he says, " I may affirm that my life has been, on the whole, the 
life of a philosopher ; from my birth I was made an intellectual 
creature; and intellectual in the highest sense my pursuits and 
pleasures have been, even from my school-boy days." Even 
his irrepressible humor has an eminently intellectual flavor. 
De Quincey was not, like Carlyle, a great moral force in the 
world. While capable of deep affection, he was not subject to 
violent outbursts of indignation at the sight of evil. He did 
not set himself up as a reformer. " I am too much of a 
eudsemonist," he said ; " I hanker too much after a state of hap- 
piness for myself and others." He sought refuge from the 
hard conflicts of the world in the retirement of his study. He 
tried to smooth the path of life by tireless courtesies of man- 
ner and speech. He possessed in an eminent degree " the grace 
of perfect breeding, everywhere persuasive, and nowhere em- 
phatic." 

426. Closing Scene. — His death, which occurred Dec. 8, 
1859, was calm and beautiful. His mind seemed to revert to 
his early associations. At the last his heart asserted its su- 
premacy over the intellect, and his last act was to throw up 
his arms and exclaim, as if with a cry of surprised recognition, 
" Sister, sister, sister ! " Perhaps it was a vision of his dearly 
loved sister Elizabeth, dead nearly seventy years before, who 
had now come to lead him beyond the river. 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 241 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Page, " De Quincey's Life and Writings," Masson, " Life of De 
Quincey " (English Men of Letters), De Quincey, "Literary Re- 
miniscences," Lathrop, Atlantic Monthly, 40: 569, Japp, Century 
Magazine, 19: 853. 

A study of De Quincey's style as exemplified in the selection given, 
Painter's " Guide to Literary Criticism," Part II. The story of 
" The Apparition of the Brocken " in the student's own words. 
What does it reveal as to the range of De Quincey's knowledge? 
A summary of his opinion of Oxford. See " Autobiographic Sketch- 
es." His estimate of Wordsworth in " Literary Reminiscences." 
A study of the wit and humor in the lecture " Murder considered 
as One of the Fine Arts." The story of the " Revolt of the 
Tartars." A review of " The English Mail-Coach." De Quincey's 
estimate of Joan of Arc. Some autobiographic incidents from the 
" Confessions of an Opium-Eater." 

"The Apparition of the Brocken" and " Savannah-la-Mar" are 
given among the selections of Part II. 



VICTORIAN AGE. 
PRINCIPAL WRITERS. 

Novelists. — Edward Bulwer, Lord Lytton (1805-1873). Volumi- 
nous and popular novelist and dramatist ; author of " Eugene Aram " 
(1831), " The Last Days of Pompeii " (1849), " Last of the Barons " 
(1843), "The Caxtons" (1849), "My Novel" (1853), etc. "The 
Lady of Lyons " and " Richelieu " are two of the best modern 
dramas. 

Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield (1804-1881). Statesman 
and novelist; author of "Vivian Grey" (1827), " Coningsby " 
(1844), " Lothair " (1870), " Endjmiion " (1881), and many others. 

Charles Kingsley (1819-1875). Clergyman, poet, and novelist; 
author of "Alton Locke" (1849), " Hypatia " (1853), "Westward 
Ho" (1855), "Hereward the Wake" (1866), etc. 

Frederick Marryat (1792-1848). Novelist of nautical adventure, 
who is unsurpassed in his sphere. " Peter Simple," " Jacob Faith- 
ful," and " Mr. Midshipman Easy " are perhaps his best. Other 
novels are "The Phantom Ship" (1839), " Masterman Ready" 
(1841), "The Privateersman " (1844), and many more. 

Anthony Trollope (1815-1882). One of the most voluminous of 
all novelists; author of "The Warden" (1855), " Barchester 
Towers" (1857), " Framley Parsonage" (i860), "Can You Forgive 
Her" (1864), " Phineas Finn" (1869), etc. 

Charles Reade (1814-1884). Author of " Peg Woffington " (1852), 
"It is Never Too Late to Mend" (1856), "The Cloister and the 
Hearth" (1861), etc. 

Wilkie Collins (1824-1889). Author of numerous novels, among 
which are "The Woman in White" (i860), "No Name" (1862), 
"The Moonstone" (1868), "Man and Wife" (1870), etc. Some of 
his novels have been dramatized. 

Robert Louis Stevenson (1845-1894). Novelist of the new 
romantic school; author of " Virginibus Puerisque " (1881), "Trea- 
sure Island" (1883), "Prince Otto" (1885), "Kidnapped" (1886), 
"The Master of Ballantrae " (1889), and "Doctor Jekyll and Mr. 
Hyde." 

243 



244 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Dinah Maria Craik (1826-1888). Author of many novels, pre- 
eminent among which are " John Halifax, Gentleman " and " A 
Life for a Life" (1859). Others are "Mistress and Maid" (1863), 
"A Noble Life" (1866), "The Woman's Kingdom" (1869), etc. 

Charles Dickens (1812-1870). Voluminous novelist, editor, and 
reformer. Author of "Pickwick Papers" (1836), "Oliver Twist" 
(1838), which portrays criminal life in London, "Nicholas Nickle- 
by " (1838), written to expose the cruelties of certain Yorkshire 
schools, " Old Curiosity Shop " with its heroine Little Nell, " David 
Copperfield " (1850), which is largely autobiographical, and perhaps 
his best novel, and many others. (See Text.) 

William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1862). A novelist, editor, 
and poet of keen analytic and satirical power. His best works are 
" Vanity Fair " (1847), a novel without a hero, " Pendennis " (1848), 
"Henry Esmond" (1852), which is commonly regarded as his best 
work, "The Newcomes " (1855), an d "The Virginians" (1859). 
His " English Humorists " is a delightful study of Swift, Addison, 
Steele, Pope, and Goldsmith. (See Text.) 

Charlotte Bronte (1816-1855). A novelist of rare gifts but of 
limited range. Her best work is "Jane Eyre" (1847). Her other 
works are "Shirley" (1849), " Villette " (1853), and "The Pro- 
fessor," which was published after her death. Her novels are 
replete with autobiographic elements. (See Text.) 

George Eliot (1819-1880). An essayist, poet, and novelist of 
keen psychological power. Author of " The Mill on the Floss " 
(i860), "Silas Marner" (1861), "Adam Bede " (1859), " Romola " 
(1863), " Middlemarch " (1872), and "Daniel Deronda " (1876). 
The greatest of all women novelists. (See text.) 

Poetry. — Arthur Hugh Clough (1810-1861) : "The Bothie of 
Tober-na-Vuolich " (1848) and " Depsychus " (1862). A poet of 
doubt, who " has neither the strength to believe nor the courage to 
disbelieve." 

Lord Lytton ("Owen Meredith") (1831-1892). Statesman, 
novelist, and poet ; author of the following poetical works : " Clytem- 
nestra" (1855), "The Wanderer" (1859), "Lucile" (i860), 
" Fables in Song," and several others. 

William Morris (1834-1896). Novelist and poet. His principal 
poetical works are "The Defence of Guinevere" (1858), "The 



VICTORIAN AGE. 245 

•Life and Death of Jason" (1867), "The Earthly Paradise" (1868- 
1871), "Love is Enough" (1873). 

Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-). Poet, dramatist, and critic; 
author of " Atalanta in Calydon : a Tragedy" (1865), "Poems and 
Ballads" (1866), "Siena: a Poem" (1868), "Songs Before Sun- 
rise" (1871), "Poems and Ballads" (1878), "Songs of the Spring 
Tides" (1880), and many others. 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882). Artist and poet; author of 
"The Blessed Damozel" (1848), "Sister Helen" (1851), "Early 
Italian Poets" (1861), "Poems" (1870-1882). Rossetti, Swin- 
burne, and Morris are the chief representatives of the romantic 
spirit in the poetry of the Victorian Age. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861). A poetess of admir- 
able gifts, wife of Robert Browning. — Author of " Sonnets from 
the Portuguese " — " the finest sonnets written in ' any lan- 
guage since Shakespeare" — "Aurora Leigh," (1856), a novel in 
verse, and of many excellent lyrics. (See Text.) 

Matthew Arnold (1822-1888). A poet and essayist of refined 
taste and style. " Sohrab and Rustum " and " Balder " are his 
chief narrative poems. Characteristic lyrics are " Resignation," " A 
Question," " The Future," " The Grande Chartreuse," " Human 
Life," " In Utrumque Paratus," etc. Among his prose works are 
" Essays in Criticism," " Culture and Anarchy," " Literature and 
Dogma," and " Discourses in America," consisting of three lectures. 
(See Text.) 

Henry Austin Dobson (1840-). Poet and critic; author of "Vig- 
nettes in Rhyme" (1873), " Proverbs in Porcelain" (1877), "At the 
Sign of the Lyre" (1885), etc. 

Andrew Lang (1844-). Poet and prose writer; author of "Bal- 
lads in Blue China" (1881), "Rhymes a la Mode" (1884), "Ballads 
of Books" (1888). Among his prose writings are "Custom and 
Myth" (1884) and "Myth, Ritual, and Religion" (1887). 

Edwin Arnold (1832-1904). Sanskrit scholar, editor, and poet; 
author of "The Light of Asia" (1878), "Pearls of the Faith" 
(1882), "The Song Celestial" (1885), and "The Light of the 
World" (1891). 

William Watson (1844-). Poet, and author of "The Prince's 
Quest" (1880), "Wordsworth's Grave, and Other Poems" (1889), 
and "Collected Poems" (1898). 



246 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

History. — George Grote (1794-1871). Member of Parliament, 
an extreme Liberal in politics, and author of an excellent " History 
of Greece" (1846-1856), and intended as an antidote to Mitford. 

Connop Thirlwall (1797-1875). Bishop of St. David's, and author" 
of a "History of Greece" (1835-1847), likewise written from a 
Liberal point of view. This work, as well as that by Grote, is 
standard. 

Henry Hart Milman (1791-1868). Dean of St. Paul's, and author 
of a "History of the Jews" (1829), "History of Latin Christian- 
ity" (1854). In addition to his excellent histories, he edited Gib- 
bon, and published a few poems. 

James A. Froude (1818-1894). Essayist and historian; author of 
a "History of England" (1856-1869), "The English in Ireland" 
(1871-1874), "Short Studies on Great Subjects" (1867), "Life of 
Carlyle " (1884). One of the most interesting of historians, but 
sometimes inaccurate. 

Edwin Augustus Freeman (1823-1892). A voluminous historian; 
author of "A History of Architecture" (1849), "History of the 
Saracens" (1856), "History of the Norman Conquest" (1867- 
1879), "Growth of the English Constitution" (1872), and many 
other works, all distinguished for careful statement. 

W. E. H. Lecky (1838-1903). Philosophic historian; author of 
"Leaders of Public Opinion in Ireland" (1861), "History of 
Rationalism in Europe" (1865), "History of European Morals" 
(1869), and a "History of England in the Eighteenth Century" 
(1878-1890). 

John Richard Green (1837-1883). Clergyman, and author of 
"Short History of the English People" (1874), " LI i story of the 
English People" (1878-1880), a work in four volumes, and "The 
Making of England" (1882). All are admirable works. 

Thomas Arnold (1795-1842). Clergyman, head-master of Rugby, 
and author of five volumes of sermons, an edition of Thucydides, 
and a " History of Rome " in three volumes. 

Sir Archibald Alison (1792-1867). Lawyer and historian; author 
of "History of Europe" (1839-1859), "Life of the Duke of Marl- 
borough" (1847), etc. His "History of Europe" is interesting 
rather than profound. 

Science and Philosophy. — Charles Darwin (1809-1882). Emi- 
nent naturalist; author of "Journal of Researches' (1839-1845), 



VICTORIAN AGE. 247 

"Origin of Species" (1859), "Descent of Man" (1871), etc. His 
writings have exerted an immense influence on modern thought. 

Herbert Spencer (1820-1903). The ablest of evolutionist philo- 
sophers; author of "Principles of Psychology" (1855), "First 
Principles" (1862), "Principles of Biology" (1867), "Principles 
of Psychology" (1872), "The Study of Sociology" (1872), etc. 

Thomas Henry Huxley (1825-1895). Biologist, lecturer, and 
essayist; author of "Oceanic Hydrozoa " (1859), "Man's Place in 
Nature" (1863), "Lay Sermons" (1870), "Introduction to the 
Classification of Animals" (1877), "Science, Culture, and Other 
Essays" (1882), etc. He has done much to popularize scientific 
knowledge. 

John Stuart Mill (1806-1873). Editor, essayist, and philosopher; 
author of a "System of Logic" (1843), "Political Economy" 
(1848), "Representative Government" (i860), "Subjection of 
Women" (1869), "Examination of Hamilton's Philosophy" (1865), 
etc. 

Sir William Hamilton (1788-1856). One of the ablest Scotch 
metaphysicians ; author of " Discussions in Philosophy, Literature, 
and Education" (1853), "Lectures on Metaphysics and Logic," 
published after his death. 

Hugh Miller (1802-1856). Geologist and able writer; author of 
"Old Red Sandstone" (1841), "Footprints of the Creator," "My 
Schools and Schoolmasters," and " Testimony of the Rocks," the 
last being an attempt to reconcile geology and Genesis. 

John Ruskin (1819-1900). A versatile man of genius, who was 
an artist, art critic, author, lecturer, and reformer. Among his 
writings may be mentioned " Praeterita," a delightful autobiography, 
"Modern Painters" (1843-1860) in defense of the English artist 
Turner, " The King of the Golden River," a fine fairy tale, " The 
Seven Lamps of Architecture" (1849), "The Stones of Venice" 
(1851-1853), "Sesame and Lilies," the most popular of his works, 
and " The Crown of Wild Olive," consisting of three lectures. 
(See Text.) 



GREAT REPRESENTATIVE WRITERS. 

Thomas Babington Macaulay. Thomas Carlyle. 

Robert Browning. Alfred Tennyson. 



VIII. 

THE VICTORIAN AGE. 
(1832 — 1906.) 

428. Human Progress. — It may be safely claimed that 
upon the whole there has been no grander age in the history of 
the world. It may lack, as some are disposed to claim, the 
aesthetic culture of the Age of Pericles, the great martial spirit 
of Ancient Rome, the lofty ideals of the age of chivalry. But 
as we compare the conditions of the present day with those 
of any period of the past, who can doubt the fact of human 
progress? The world has grown into a liberty, intelligence, 
happiness, and morality unknown at any previous time. To be 
sure, the golden age has not been reached; that lies, and per- 
haps far distant, in the future. Many evils in society, in the 
state, and in the church need to be corrected. But the advance- 
ment during the present century, and particularly during the 
reign of Queen Victoria, has been marvellously rapid. 

429. An Age of Invention. — If we think of the wonderful 
improvements in the mechanic arts, we recognize this period as 
an age of invention. Within a few decades are comprised 
more numerous and more important inventions than are found 
in many preceding centuries taken together. Social and in- 
dustrial life has been thoroughly revolutionized. Think of the 
wonders accomplished by steam ! It has supplied a new motive 
power, accelerated travel, and built up manufacturing inland 
towns and cities. Electricity is at present accomplishing 
scarcely less. It carries our messages, lights our cities, and 
runs our street railways. The capacity of the printing-press 
has been vastly increased. While the sewing-machine has 
taken the place of the needle in the house, the reaper and the 
mowing-machine have supplanted the sickle and the scythe in 
the field. The breech-loading and repeating rifle has driven 
out the muzzle-loading flint-lock. 

249 



250 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

430. Scientific Investigation. — The present period is an 
age of scientific investigation and progress. The Baconian 
spirit prevails ; and investigation — systematic, minute, and 
prolonged — has taken the place of empty speculation. In the 
presence of rapid changes, tradition has lost much of its power; 
and with their growing intelligence men are less willing to be 
guided by mere authority. Careful and patient toilers are at 
work in every department of learning; and nature, questioned 
as never before, is gradually yielding up her secrets. All the 
natural sciences — physics, zoology, botany, geology, chemistry, 
physiology, astronomy — have been wonderfully expanded; 
Faraday, Tyndall, Darwin, Spencer, and others are honored 
names in natural science. 

431. Theory of Evolution. — The same patient methods of 
investigation are applied to the study of the mind, the origin of 
man, the history of the past. The theory of evolution, some- 
times with greater or less modification, has been generally ac- 
cepted, and, like the law of gravitation or the Copernican sys- 
tem, has greatly changed our views of nature and of history. 
Many old beliefs have been modified or destroyed ; but the 
general result has been to give us greater breadth of thought 
and a clearer insight into the laws of God. 

432. A Practical Age. — This is pre-eminently a practical 
age, aiming at visible results. The vast resources, which sci- 
ence and invention have placed at our command, are applied in 
various ways to the comfort and well-being of man. The ma- 
terial wealth of every country is being developed; and daring 
explorers, supported by private enterprise or royal bounty, are 
sent to examine unknown regions. Every effort is put forth to 
make living less costly and more comfortable. No doubt, as 
is pointed out sometimes, this practical tendency goes too far, 
subjecting aesthetic and spiritual interests to material ends. 
The ideal is, in too great a degree, banished from life. But, in 
spite of these facts, the practical tendency of our age deserves 
to be considered one of its many claims to superiority. 

433- Educational Advancement. — It is an age of educa- 
tional advancement. In England as elsewhere, schools of 
every class have been multiplied, and education has been 



VICTORIAN AGE. 251 

brought within the reach of the common people. The meth- 
ods of instruction are more nearly conformed to the nature of 
the child, and the subjects of study are designed to fit the pupil 
for the duties of practical life. In higher education the 
change is no less remarkable ; the traditional curriculum, con- 
sisting largely of Latin and Greek, has been greatly expanded, 
and subjects of immediate practical importance — the modern 
languages, natural and political science, the mother tongue, and 
history — receive increased attention. Women now have the 
advantages of higher education, either in separate or in co- 
educational colleges. 

434. Periodical Press. — Intelligence was never so gen- 
erally diffused. The periodical press exerts an immense influ- 
ence. Great dailies spread before the people every morning 
the news of the world. Monthly magazines and reviews, un- 
surpassed in tasteful form and literary excellence, have been 
greatly multiplied. They powerfully stimulate literary activity, 
while cultivating the taste, intelligence, and character of the 
people. They are often the original vehicles, not only for what 
is best in fiction, poetry, and criticism, but also for what 
is most interesting in science and history. 

435. International Relations. — The present is an age of 
close international relations. Submarine cables and fleet 
steamers bring the various nations of the earth together. They 
are united by commercial interests. They share in common 
social, industrial, scientific, and literary interests; and what is 
true of England in these particulars is substantially true of 
America or, in a less degree, of France, or of Germany. Chris- 
tendom has become more homogeneous; culture is more cos- 
mopolitan. With a clearer knowledge of one another, and with 
common interests fostered by commerce, the nations of the 
earth have developed kindlier feelings. From time to time 
they unite in great expositions of their choicest products, and 
settle minor differences by diplomacy or arbitration. 

436. Political Progress. — It is a time of political progress. 
The democratic principles, announced and defended in America 
and France at the close of the eighteenth century, have become 
generally diffused. It is now commonly recognized that govern- 



252 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ments exist, not for sovereigns or favored classes, but for the 
people. New reform bills have greatly extended the right of 
suffrage in England, the elective franchise being extended, in 
certain cases, even to women. The science of government is 
better understood, and legislative enactments have become more 
intelligent and equitable. The public administration has be- 
come purer. If bribery, self-aggrandizement, and dishonesty 
still exist, these evils are much less frequent than in former 
ages. Public men live in the light and are held accountable 
at the bar of public opinion. 

437. Social Progress. — The present period is an era of 
social progress. The increased facilities of production have 
greatly cheapened the necessaries of life. Wages have gen- 
erally increased; and the poor, as well as the rich, live better 
than ever before. Women enjoy greater advantages. But, at 
the same time, there is great social unrest. Many believe that 
the existing economic conditions are not final. Wasteful wealth 
sometimes „ exists by the side of starving poverty. Gigantic 
combinations of capital, which often abuse their power to 
wrong the people, are commonly recognized as a serious evil. 
Great attention is given to the study of economic and socio- 
logical questions, which are treated, not only in scientific, but 
also in fictitious, works. 

438. Religious Advancement. — The religious advance- 
ment of the period under consideration is specially noteworthy. 
The conflict between dogma and science, which at times has 
been sharp, has not been prejudicial to Christianity. Super- 
stition has become a thing of the past, and the emphasis of re- 
ligious teaching is now centered upon fundamental and prac- 
tical truths. The Gospel is looked upon as a rule of life for 
the present world, and Christ is becoming more and more the 
conscious ideal of men. The ascetic spirit has given place to 
an active spirit, which finds the highest service of God in 
bravely meeting the duties of everyday life. The asperities of 
religious sects are softening; Jews as well as Roman Catholics 
are admitted to Parliament ; religious tests are abolished at Ox- 
ford and Cambridge; Dissenters, since 1880, have had the 
right to bury in the public churchyards with their own re- 



VICTORIAN AGE. 253 

ligious services. The Evangelical Alliance and the Young 
Men's Christian Association are the practical manifestation of 
the general tendency toward closer union and cooperation 
among Christian people. 

439. Practical Benevolence. — In harmony with the prac- 
tical tendencies of the age, religion has become more benevolent 
in its activities. The fatherhood of God and the brotherhood 
of man are appreciated as never before. The church is active 
in missionary work at home and abroad. It is prominent in 
every work that seeks to relieve the unfortunate and reclaim 
the lost. The treatment of the unfortunate and the criminal 
classes is more humane. The insane are no longer chained 
in loathsome cells, the unfortunate debtor is not thrown into 
jail, the petty criminal is not hanged. The church seeks to 
bring a pure and benevolent spirit to the settlement of the 
great social and political problems of the day. 

440. Creative and Diffusive Literature. — The foregoing 
survey of present conditions, as they exist in England and else- 
where, enables us to understand more fully the literary char- 
acter of the Victorian Age. It will be recognized that this 
period has been exceedingly favorable to general literature. 
The rich and varied life of the English people has been re- 
flected in their writing. If we seek to characterize this period 
on its literary side, we may designate it as creative and dif- 
fusive. New fields of thought have been opened up ; new ques- 
tions have been brought before society; and the interests of 
life — social, religious, industrial, scientific — have been enor- 
mously multiplied. Never before, if we except the drama, was 
English literature so rich and so varied. In style there has 
been a return to nature; at the same time there has been an 
artistic finish, particularly in prose, unknown in previous eras. 

441. Essay Writing. — With the establishment of many 
periodicals, essay writing has attained a new importance and 
excellence. In the days of Addison and Johnson, the essay 
was devoted chiefly to brief discussions of light social and 
moral topics. The great critics of the Age of Scott were 
usually ponderous. But at present, in the form of popular 
reviews and magazine articles, the essay deals with every sub- 



254 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ject of interest or importance. The scholar, the scientist, the 
philosopher, the historian, each uses the periodical press to 
set forth the results of his studies and investigations. Our 
leading magazines and reviews register the successive stages 
of human progress ; and without an acquaintance with their 
contents, it is difficult to keep fully abreast with the times. 

442. Historical Writing. — A notable advance rs discern- 
ible in the writing of history. Greater prominence is given 
to the social condition of the people. The sources of informa- 
tion have' been greatly enlarged, and historians are expected 
to base their statements on trustworthy data. Besides, a philo- 
sophy of history has been recognized. Greater attention is 
given to the moving causes of events and to the general ten- 
dencies in national life. With this greater trustworthiness and 
more philosophic treatment, history has lost nothing of its ex- 
cellence of style. If it has given up the uniform stateliness of 
Robertson and Gibbon, it has become more graphic, more 
varied, and more interesting. 

443. Prominence of Fiction. — No other department of 
literature has shown a richer development during the present 
period than fiction. It occupies the place filled by the drama 
during the Elizabethan period. The plot is skilfully conducted ; 
the characters represent every class of society ; the thoughts 
are often the deepest of which our nature is capable. Fiction 
is no longer simply a means of amusement. Without laying 
aside its artistic character, it has become in great measure 
didactic. In the form of historical romance, it seeks to repro- 
duce in a vivid manner the thoughts, feelings, and customs of 
other ages. The novel of contemporary life often holds up to 
view the foibles and vices of modern society. In many cases 
fiction is made the means of popularizing various social, re- 
ligious, and political views. 

444. Realistic Reaction. — During the Victorian Age 
there has been a notable reaction, generally called realism, 
against the romanticism of the earlier part of the century. The 
scientific spirit of the time became dissatisfied with the fanci- 
ful pictures of past ages and with the impossibilities of wild 
romance. Realism, as the term indicates, adheres to reality. 



VICTORIAN AGE. 255 

Discarding what is idealistic or unreal in characters and situ- 
ations, it aims at being true to life. All the greatest novelists 
of this period — Dickens, Thackeray, George Eliot — were, in 
the best sense of the word, realists. Their works present a 
striking contrast with those of Scott, who was the prince of 
romanticists. 

445- Critique of Realism. — As an effort to represent life 
as it is, we must acknowledge the worth of realism. In its 
proper application, it places the novel on an immovable basis. 
Like Shakespeare's plays, it holds the mirror up to nature. 
Unfortunately the realistic writers have not, in many cases, been 
true to their fundamental principles. The great continental 
leaders of realism — Tolstoi, Zola, Ibsen — have been tainted 
with a fatal pessimism. Realists of this type seem to see only 
one side of life — the darker side of sin, and wretchedness, and 
despair. They often descend to what is coarse, impure, ob- 
scene. No doubt their pictures are true, as far as they go; 
but the fatal defect of their work is that it does not reflect 
life as a whole. It does not portray the pure and noble and 
happy side of life, which is just as real as the other. 

446. New Romanticism. — Except in the hands of genius, 
realism is apt to be dull. It gives us uninteresting photo- 
graphs. There are times when we do not so much care for 
instruction as for amusement and recreation. This fact opens 
a legitimate field for the imaginative story-teller. There is to- 
day a decided reaction against realism in the form of what 
has been called the new romanticism. It does not present to 
us elaborate studies of life, but entertains us with an inter- 
esting or exciting story. The leaders of this movement in Eng- 
land are Doyle, Stevenson, Weyman, and Hope, whose works 
in recent years have been widely read. 

447. Variety and Depth of Poetry. — As might be ex- 
pected from the practical tendencies of the time, poetry is less 
pominent in literature than in some previous periods. But it 
has had not a few illustrious devotees, who stand out with 
prominence in the Victorian era. There are, perhaps, no names 
that stand higher than those of Tennyson and Browning. Poe- 
try partakes of the many-sided character of the age. While 



256 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

the poetic imagery inherited from Greece and Rome has been 
swept away by the progress of science, poetry itself has gained 
in variety and depth. It treats with equal facility the present 
and the past. It voices the manifold interests and aspirations 
of the age — social, political scientific, religious. Never before 
did the stream of poetry have such volume and power; and 
if sometimes, as in Clough and Matthew Arnold, it has been 
lacking in faith and cheer, it has in the main borne to men a 
message of hope, courage, and truth. 

448. New Poetic Forms. — While in large measure realis- 
tic, poetry has not cast aside its ideal character. Modern pro- 
gress in culture has placed it on a high vantage ground — far 
in advance of all the preceding ages ; and from this new po- 
sition its penetrating vision pierces farther into the realms of 
unexplored and undiscovered truth. With its present expansion 
in thought and feeling, poetry has naturally assumed new forms. 
While in dramatic poetry there is a humiliating decay in com- 
parison with the Elizabethan era, yet in lyric, narrative, and 
didactic poetry we find almost unrivalled excellence. With 
naturalness of form and expression, there is a careful and 
conscientious workmanship not found in previous periods. 

In addition to the great writers selected for special study in 
this period, there are other distinguished names scarcely less 
worthy of mention. Charlotte Bronte, George Eliot, Thackeray, 
Dickens, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Matthew Arnold, and 
John Ruskin — all these have felt the inspiration of genius, and 
made lasting contributions to English literature. 

449. Charlotte Bronte. — In her novels, which have been 
mentioned in the preceding list of writers, Charlotte Bronte has 
portrayed her own character with great clearness. Forced by 
solitude and suffering to prolonged introspection, she acquired 
a rare self-knowledge. She gazed steadily into the tragic 
depths of the human soul. She had but a limited acquaintance 
with literature and society. Her genius was singularly re- 
stricted in its materials. Hence her work is largely autobio- 
graphical; it is her experience as contemplated in the light of a 
strong imagination. " Jane Eyre," " Lucy Snowe," and even 
"The Professor" are Charlotte Bronte herself. She was of 



VICTORIAN AGE. 257 

delicate mould; and whether she experienced joy or sorrow, it 
was in an intense degree. What has been said of her last 
work " Villette " may be justly applied to all her writings : 
" Out of the dull record of humble woes, marked by no startling 
episodes, adorned by few of the flowers of poetry, she created 
such a heart history as remains to this day without a rival in 
the school of English fiction to which it belongs." 

450. A Sad Life. — There are few lives that have been so 
sad. Her history, it has been suggested, ought to be written 
in tears. Death early robbed her of a mother's care. Her 
school life, as depicted in the early chapters of " Jane Eyre," 
was characterized by harsh treatment, insufficient food, and en- 
forced exposure to wet and cold. The dissipated habits of a 
loved and talented brother brought a constant care and hu- 
miliating sorrow. Her life as a governess was scarcely better 
than a prolonged torture to her sensitive nature. Her efforts 
to establish a school were an ignominious failure. Yet, in the 
midst of this clouded existence, her spirit continued to burn 
with quenchless fire; and out of her bitter trials she wrought a 
series of works which, by their beauty and depth and power, 
have gained a permanent place in our literature. 

451. Critique. — Her style exhibits a direct and masculine 
vigor that places Miss Bronte among the masters of English 
prose. The leading characters, far from an ideal perfection, are 
portrayed with a deeply impressive realism. Some of the 
scenes of " Jane Eyre " are intensely dramatic, and the reader is 
carried forward with eager interest to the close. Unconven- 
tional in form and sentiment, its originality gave rise to some 
carping criticism ; and in the preface to the second edition, 
which was speedily called for, the author took occasion to re- 
mind her readers that " Conventionality is not morality. Self- 
righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail 
the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee is 
not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns." Though 
not without faults of conception, of taste, and of ignorance, 
" Jane Eyre " stands as one of the great impressive books of the 
nineteenth century. 

452. George Eliot. — George Eliot — her real name was 



258 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Mary Ann Evans — did not begin to write novels, on which her 
fame chiefly depends, till she had reached the full maturity of 
her intellectual powers. She was thirty-eight when her first 
story was published. Gifted with a large and penetrating mind, 
she was a profound student of the human soul; and few other 
writers, even among the very greatest, have sounded lower 
depths. She was deeply impressed by the ethical significance 
of life, and everywhere discerned the same tragedy of hunger 
and labor, sin and suffering, love and death. She portrayed 
ordinary life in its deeper thought and feeling; and her method, 
to express it in a single phrase, was that of psychologic realism. 

453. Distinguished Friends. — She early showed an in- 
clination to write ; and after a trip to the Continent in 1849, s ^ e 
became associate editor of the Westminster Review. Her con- 
nection with this periodical, to which she contributed some able 
essays, brought her into contact with some of the ablest ad- 
vanced thinkers of her time. Among her friends she num- 
bered Carlyle, Harriet Martineau, Lewes, Herbert Spencer, and 
others. A still deeper attachment sprang up between her and 
George H. Lewes, a man of bright and genial nature, whose 
wife had abandoned him. When he found it impossible to se- 
cure a divorce, George Eliot entered into a conjugal relation 
with him without the usual sanction of church and state. This 
bold and irregular step cost her the respect and confidence of 
many friends. But apart from its unfortunate irregularity, the 
union turned out singularly helpful and happy; and in the con- 
fidence and encouragement of her husband, George Eliot found 
a much needed stimulus in her work. 

454. "Scenes from Clerical Life." — The time had now 
come for her to enter upon a wider literary career, and to ex- 
emplify her profound conceptions of the novelist's art. In the 
fall of 1856 she wrote " Amos Barton," the first story in 
"Scenes of Clerical Life." The scenery, incidents, and char- 
acters were taken from her childhood recollections. 

In " Scenes from Clerical Life " we discover the distinguishing 
features of George Eliot's work. Lacking in dramatic power, 
she aimed at a truthful portrayal of character rather than an 
exciting train of incidents. She is a novelist of the soul, as Dick- 



VICTORIAN AGE. 259 

ens is of manners. The prevailing tone of her work is one of 
sadness. Weakness, error, and sin are allowed, as in actual life, 
to bring forth failure and suffering. The background of her 
own nature was shrouded in gloom. Though her sceptical 
opinions are carefully repressed, they cast a shadow over her 
work; and with one or two exceptions we are apt to rise from 
a perusal of any of her books with a feeling of depression. 

455. "Adam Bede." — In writing fiction George Eliot had 
at last found her vocation, and in this fact she experienced a 
satisfaction unknown before. Scarcely were the " Scenes from 
Clerical Life " finished, when George Eliot nerved herself for 
a stronger flight. She set to work on " Adam Bede " late in 
1857, continued it during a pleasant sojourn of some months in 
Germany, and completed it in England in November, 1858. It 
was published the following year, and rarely has any book cre- 
ated so great a sensation in the literary world. Charles Reade 
pronounced it " the finest thing since Shakespeare " ; Charles 
Buxton quoted it in Parliament; Herbert Spencer said that he 
felt the better for reading it. No fewer than eighteen thousand 
copies were sold the first year, and George Eliot suddenly 
found herself in the forefront of English novelists. 

456. Two Notable Books. — Her next book, completed 
and published in i860, was " The Mill on the Floss." It contains 
a larger autobiographic element than any of her other works; 
for Maggie is a youthful portrait of George Eliot herself, while 
Tom Tulliver is her brother Isaac. " Silas Marner ", which ap- 
peared the following year, is, perhaps, the most artistic of all 
our author's works. Not so lengthy as her other novels, it is 
more rapid in movement and symmetrical in form. For the 
first time in her writings, imagination takes the place of remi- 
niscence. Though serious, as are all her books, it is less de- 
pressing than most of them. It is lighted up with many a touch 
of humor, and ends with wedding bells. The transformation 
in Silas Marner's character, through his love for the little 
waif that had stolen into his cottage, is something that is 
beautiful in itself and full of promise for humanity. 

457. Other Works. — " Romola," which appeared in 1863, 
is one of the greatest of historical novels. It was wrought with 



260 ENGLISH LITERATURE 

incredible toil. " I began it a young woman ", George Eliot 
said ; " I finished it an old woman." It reproduces with won- 
derful power the stirring scenes and interests of Florence at 
the close of the fifteenth century. Romola is no less noble in 
soul than beautiful in person; and the ideals she cherished 
may be regarded as those of George Eliot herself. The poem 
of " The Spanish Gypsy " was published in 1868 ; but, though 
it was received with favor at the time, it is rather tedious now. 
" Middlemarch " was published in 1872 and " Daniel Deronda " 
in 1876. The rank these works hold among her writings is a 
disputed point ; but the fact seems to be that, with less of popular 
interest, they exhibit greater depth and breadth of thought. 
There are not a few who regard " Middlemarch " as the greatest 
of her works. In " Daniel Deronda " she shows her sympathy 
with the Jews, to whom, she maintained, the Western people, 
who have adopted Christianity, owe a peculiar debt. But how- 
ever great these books may be, their depth and seriousness will 
prevent them from being general favorites. 

458. Nobleness of Aim. — In her life she made grave mis- 
takes, and suffered much ; but in all her trials of body and soul, 
she never lost her nobility of purpose nor her sympathy with 
burdened, struggling humanity. The deep purpose of her life 
she has beautifully expressed in one of her poems : — 

" May I be to other souls 
The cup of strength in some great agony, 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty — 
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
And in diffusion ever more intense. 
So shall I join the choir invisible 
Whose music is the gladness of the world." 

459- William Makepeace Thackeray. — Many parallels 
have been drawn between Thackeray and Dickens, the two 
greatest novelists of their day. Both attained great popularity; 
yet in character, methods of work, and attitude toward life, 
they were very different. In place of Thackeray's almost femi- 



VICTORIAN AGE. 261 

nine timidity, Dickens had a virile self-confidence and determin- 
ation. In place of Thackeray's distrust of himself and the 
world, Dickens had an invincible confidence in both. In place 
of Thackeray's irresolution and unsystematic methods of work, 
Dickens was resolute and regular in a marked degree. In place 
of Thackeray's satirical attitude, which made him dwell chiefly 
on the shams and foibles of life, Dickens dwelt chiefly on the 
good to be found in human nature, even in its most degraded 
forms. Of the two, it is needless to say that Dickens has been 
the more popular; but it would be rash to say that he was the 
greater intellect or better artist. 

460. A Prince of Realists. — In constructing a work of fic- 
tion, the novelist may adopt any one of three methods : he may 
describe what is romantic or extravagant in character and in- 
cident; he may depict ideal or poetic personages and conditions; 
or he may adhere strictly to reality, portraying men and events 
as they actually exist. Thackeray adopted the last method and 
may be justly regarded as the prince of English realists. At 
the same time, he did not aim to portray life in its fulness; 
and with his intense dislike of sham and villainy, he made the 
false and sinful side of society most prominent in his works. 
In " Vanity Fair " he warns his readers that he is " going to tell 
a tale of harrowing villainy." To many persons it is depressing. 
We can easily understand why Thackeray's children used to 
say to him, " Papa, why don't you write books like Mr. Dick- 
ens?" But after a large acquaintance with life has taught us 
something of its shams and villainies, " Vanity Fair " becomes 
a delightful book, holding the mirror up to the darker side of 
society. 

461. Poetic Skill. — Though Thackeray can hardly be re- 
garded as a poet, he was a versifier of uncommon skill. Like 
his prose works, his poems are mostly humorous and satirical ; 
but at the same time there is an undertone of seriousness and 
pathos running through them. The " Sorrows of Werther," 
a satirt on Goethe's romance of the same name, is well 
known : — 



262 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" Werther had a love for Charlotte 
Such as words could never utter; 
Would you know how first he met her ? 
She was cutting bread and butter." 

" The End of the Play " is one of the best of his more serious 
poems, breathing a pathetic sadness. " The Cane-Bottomed 
Chair" was the author's favorite ballad ;»but in no other poem 
has he put so much of his feeling in regard to life as in 
" Vanitas Vanitatum " : — 

" O vanity of vanities ! 

How wayward the decrees of fate are ; 
How very weak the very wise, 

How very small the very great are ! 

" Though thrice a thousand years have past, 
Since David's son, the sad and splendid, 
The weary King Ecclesiast, 
Upon his awful tablets penned it, — 

" Methinks the text is never stale, 
And life is every day renewing 
Fresh comments on the old, old tale 
Of folly, fortune, glory, ruin." 

462. Charles Dickens. — Dickens was fortunate in coming 
upon the stage at an opportune moment. The brilliant Victorian 
Age had scarcely begun. Shelley, Keats, Byron, Coleridge, 
Lamb, were names of the past ; and that mighty constellation of 
Victorian writers — Carlyle, Macaulay, Tennyson, Browning, 
and others — was just appearing above the horizon. In the 
realm of fiction particularly, there was a void. Scott had lain 
in his tomb five years; and in spite of the partial success of 
Bulwer and Disraeli, no one had been found worthy to take his 
place. At such a time did Dickens appear upon the scene to 
become for many years the acknowledged prince of novelists. 

463. Parentage. — Charles Dickens, the second in a family 
of eight children, was born in Portsea, Feb. 7, 1812. His father 



VICTORIAN AGE. 263 

was at that time a government clerk connected with the Ports- 
mouth dockyard. He was, according to his son's testimony, in- 
dustrious and conscientious in the discharge of business, and 
" as kind-hearted and generous a man as ever lived in the 
world." But thrift was not one of his virtues. With an in- 
creasing family and accumulating debts, he moved to London 
when his son was two years old, and not long afterward to 
Chatham. His wife was a woman of some accomplishments, 
but without much practical wisdom and force of character. 

The experiences of the family at this period and after their 
return to London have been immortalized in " David Copper- 
field." To have a complete record, it is only necessary to sub- 
stitute John Dickens for the easy-going Mr. Micawber. Even 
the " Boarding Establishment for Young Ladies " is not a 
fiction ; but unfortunately for the welfare of the family no pupils 
ever came, and the house was visited only by a growing num- 
ber of inexorable creditors. At last the elder Dickens was 
thrown into the Marshalsea prison for debt, where he moralized 
in much the same strain as Micawber. With tears he conjured 
his son " to take warning by his fate, and to observe that if a 
man had twenty pounds a year for his income, and spent nine- 
teen pounds nineteen chillings and sixpence he would be 
happy, but that if he spent twenty pounds one he would be 
miserable." 

464. " Pickwick." — The success of " Pickwick," which was 
published in 1836, established the reputation of Dickens and 
confirmed him in a literary career of astonishing fruitfulness. 
It was the most popular novel of its day. It has remained one 
of its author's most popular books. In several particulars it il- 
lustrates his peculiar methods and powers. Though possessed of 
no small degree of dramatic talent, Dickens does not often 
make use of elaborate plots. He is preeminently a novelist of 
incident. He places before us graphic scenes rather than pro- 
found studies. His characters are vividly drawn, but generally 
with the exaggeration of caricature. He has a dominant but 
kindly sense of humor, which, less refined than that of a Lamb 
or Irving, is exhibited most frequently in absurd characters 
and ridiculous situations. Besides all this, there is found in 



264 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" Pickwick " an abounding and contagious vitality, which con- 
stitutes one of the great charms of the book. 

465. Critique. — As a novelist, Dickens followed a large and 
diffuse method. He lacked the severe self-restraint that be- 
longs to the classic spirit. His scenes and characters are almost 
exclusively confined to the lower half of society; and when he 
has attempted to portray a higher type of manhood and woman- 
hood, he has generally failed. But these and other defects are 
so heavily counterbalanced by prevailing excellences that we can 
afford to ignore them. In spite of caricature, many of his 
characters are genuine creations, whose doings and sayings are 
quoted with the tacit assumption that they are familiar to every 
one. Who can forget Pickwick, or Mr. Micawber, or Bill 
Sikes, or a score of others? Dickens is always pure and true 
in his moral feeling. He never confounds vice and virtue, nor 
loses sight of the great truth that " the wages of sin is death." 
He had a wide human sympathy, which discovered, even in the 
lowest outcast, some remaining spark of goodness. " This hu- 
mane kinship with the vulgar and the common," says Frederic 
Harrison, " this magic which strikes poetry out of the dust of 
the streets, and discovers the traces of beauty and joy in the 
most monotonous of lives, is, in the true and best sense of the 
term," Christ-like, with a message and gospel of hope." 

466. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. — The nineteenth cen- 
tury produced many female writers of high excellence. They 
are represented in almost all departments of literature, but not- 
ably in poetry and fiction. This result has been brought about 
by the larger culture which is now open to women. They have 
risen to the demands of a larger sphere of thought and action. 
Among our great female writers, Mrs. Browning occupies a 
foremost place. She is beyond question the greatest poetess of 
England, and, as many believe, of the world. What other poet- 
ess deserves a place beside her? In genuineness of inspiration 
and in vigor of thought she stands above all her sister singers. 

467. Indomitable Energy. — Her life was not without 
great trials. Most persons would have been crushed by them. 
But, as part of her endowment of genius, she had an indomitable 
energy; and, as often happens, her sufferings but deepened and 



VICTORIAN AGE. 265 

ennobled her character. She experienced and believed, what 
another poet has said : — 

" These severe afflictions 
Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise." 

Suffering gave depth of insight and emotion to her song. 
But better than her poetry, with all its excellence, was the 
brave, pure, noble womanhood that stood behind it. 

468. Her Fame Established. — In 1844 she published two 
volumes of poetry that established her fame on a permanent 
basis. They contain some of her most popular poems. " A 
Vision of Poets," which contains a brief characterization of the 
principal Greek, Roman, Italian, French, and English bards, 
abounds in deep thought. The moral of the poem, which the 
author herself had learned by experience, is contained in the 
last stanza : — 

"'Glory to God — to God!' he saith, 
Knowledge by suffering entereth, 
And life is perfected by death." 

" The Romaunt of the Page " and the " Rhyme of the 
Duchess May " are ballads of deathless love. " The Dead 
Pan " is a noble song, which recognizes the fact of human 
progress : — 

" Earth outgrows the mythic fancies 
Sung beside her in her youth, 
And those debonair romances 
Sound but dull beside the truth. 
Phoebus' chariot course is run : 
Look up, poets, to the sun ! 

Pan, Pan is dead." 

" The Sleep," with its refrain, — 

" He giveth his beloved sleep," — 

is a poem of sweet comforting power. But the most popular 
of all was the romantic, unconventional " Lady Geraldine's 



266 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Courtship." It was hastily written to swell the first volume to 
the requisite number of pages, the last hundred and forty-seven 
lines being written in a single day. In spite of Lady Geral- 
dine's infatuation, the hero seems wanting in true manliness of 
feeling and conduct. 

469. " Sonnets from the Portuguese." — The volumes in 
question led to an acquaintance with Robert Browning, whom 
she married two years later in 1846. 

In one of her letters she has told the story of her courtship 
and marriage, in a straightforward way; but the deepest and 
truest record of her inner life during that period is found in 
her " Sonnets from the Portuguese." They were not written for 
the public; and it was not till some months after her marriage 
that they were shown to her husband. He at once pronounced 
them " the finest sonnets written in any language since Shake- 
speare." They embody Mrs. Browning's best work, and rank 
in the very forefront of English love poems. The first of the 
series is regarded by Stedman as the best sonnet in our lan- 
guage ; its dramatic form and womanly pathos make it a poem 
of moving power. 

470. " Aurora Leigh." — " Aurora Leigh " is a novel in 
verse ; but it moves on a high plane of thought and feeling. It 
was published in 1856; and so rapid was its sale that a second 
edition was called for in a fortnight. Beyond any other of her 
works "Aurora Leigh" presents her thoughts on art. and life. 
She had a high conception of the poet's office. She calls 
poets — 

" The only truth-tellers now left to God, 
The only speakers of essential truth, 
Opposed to relative, comparative, 
And temporal truths ; the only holders by 
His sun-skirts, through conventional gray glooms ; 
The only teachers who instruct mankind, 
From just a shadow on a charnell-wall, 
To find man's veritable stature out, 
Erect, sublime — the measure of a man." 



VICTORIAN AGE. 267 

Here is her conception of art : — 

" What is art 
But life upon the larger scale, the higher, 
When, graduating up in a spiral line 
Of still expanding and ascending gyres, 
It pushes toward the intense significance 
Of all things, hungry for the Infinite? 
Art's life; and when we live, we suffer and toil." 

These extracts must suffice to illustrate the thought and man- 
ner of the poem. The story itself is unconventional, but some- 
how the leading characters and incidents fail to awaken any- 
thing like breathless interest. 

471. Characteristics. — Mrs. Browning's poetry is the sin- 
cere utterance of her soul. The nobility of her nature and the 
extent and refinement of her culture lift it above the common- 
place in thought and expression. Conforming her practice to 
her theory, she let the spirit of each piece determine its form. 
She handles with ease difficult stanzaic forms. She was a 
patient, conscientious worker; and her defective rhymes, which 
critics have magnified, were less the result of carelessness than 
of an unfortunate theory, which was to give greater freedom 
to English versification. In her earlier poems there is, perhaps, 
a measure of diffuseness ; and throughout her literary career 
she remained romantic rather than classic in her genius and 
art. But in spite of all defects, she justly merits Stedman's 
eulogy as " the most inspired woman of all who have composed 
in ancient or modern tongues, or flourished in any land or 
time." 

472. Matthew Arnold. — The literary career of Matthew 
Arnold began in 1849 with " The Strayed Reveller, and Other 
Poems," which were followed three years later by " Empedocles 
on Etna, and Other Poems." In 1853 he published a volume 
of " Poems," made up principally from his previous works. He 
had a high conception of the nature of poetry, which he defined 
as " a criticism of life under the conditions fixed for such 
criticism by the laws of poetic truth and poetic beauty." He 



268 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

did not believe, as Macaulay and Nordau have held, that poe- 
try would disappear with the full maturity of our race. On 
the contrary, he maintained that " the future of poetry is im- 
mense, because in poetry, where it is worthy of its high des- 
tinies, our race, as time goes on, will find an ever surer and 
surer stay." While insisting on beauty of form, he laid par- 
ticular stress on truth and value of substance. In one of his 
sonnets he says that the poet's muse should be — 

" Young, gay, 
Radiant, adorned outside ; a hidden ground 
Of thought and of austerity within." 

473. Rank as a Poet. — We cannot assign him a very high 
rank as a poet — considerably lower, indeed, than he imagined 
he deserved. His poems are lacking in the quality of spon- 
taneity or inevitableness. Few of them have the stamp of 
melodious perfection. They frequently exhibit subtlety of 
thought and delicacy of feeling; but the conscious, restrained 
effort is nearly always discernible. His narrative poems, par- 
ticularly " Sohrab and Rustum " and " Balder," reflect, in their 
clearness and dignity of style, the poet's studies in Homer. 
Both are admirable poems. 

474. Tone of Sadness. — The prevailing tone of his poetry 
is sad. He had a strong sense of fate and sorrow in human 
life. In the little poem " A Question," the sad and tragic side 
of life finds beautiful expression : — 

" Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows 
Like the wave ; 
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men. 
Love lends life a little grace, 
A few sad smiles ; and then 
Both are laid in one cold place, — 
In the grave." 

The poet felt keenly the unsettled conditions and beliefs of 
our epoch of change and transition. In " The Grande 
Chartreuse " we read : — 



VICTORIAN AGE. 269 

" Achilles ponders in his tent, 
The kings of modern thought are dumb; 
Silent they are, though not content, 
And wait to see the future come. 
They have the grief men had of yore, 
But they contend and cry no more." 

475- Function of Criticism. — In 1865 appeared his " Es- 
says in Criticism," a volume chiefly noted for its first chapter 
on the function of criticism. Arnold was more than a mere 
literary artist; beneath all his writings, however urbane in 
manner, there is a serious purpose. He made criticism mean 
much more than the inglorious art of finding fault or of dis- 
playing the critic's learning. " Its business is," he says, 
" simply to know the best that is known and thought in the 
world, and by in its turn making this known, to create a cur- 
rent of true and fresh ideas." Or, as he more briefly defines 
it elsewhere, criticism is " a disinterested endeavor to learn and 
propagate the best that is known and thought in the world." 
This places criticism on a high plane, and makes of the compe- 
tent critic an inspiring teacher and guide. 

476. Secret of His Popularity. — A list of Arnold's prin- 
cipal works has been given on a preceding page. 

As we review the leading points in Arnold's criticism, on 
which his fame must chiefly rest, we are impressed with his 
limitations. His attainments were neither of the widest nor 
profoundest. What, then, has been the secret of his popu- 
larity? First of all his style, though a little too self-conscious 
and overrefined, is winning and lucid. There is never any 
difficulty in understanding what he is driving at, and he labels 
his principal points with a telling word or phrase. Besides 
this, he preserved at all times an unruffled sweetness of temper. 
Even in his most refined cruelty he exhibits a charming ur- 
banity. But most of all, he had a real message to the English 
people. He earnestly exhorted them to mingle with the pur- 
suit of gain the sweetness and light of genuine culture. The 
self-confidence or dogmatism often apparent in his manner did 
not rise from an offensive egotism. The explanation is to be 



270 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

found in his preface to " St. Paul and Protestantism." In 
what he wrote he believed himself to be an organ for that 
mighty collective tendency which we call the spirit of the age. 
Whoever looks upon himself in this light, necessarily speaks " as 
one having authority." 

477. John Ruskin. — The restless genius of John Ruskin 
has led him into many fields of thought. He has been an artist, 
art critic, author, moralist, sociologist, reformer. He has not 
been equally great in all these spheres of activity, but he has 
everywhere been animated by the same valiant and unselfish 
love of truth. His opinions are not always safe or consistent, 
and many of his social ideas are strangely impracticable ; but 
whatever he has said or advocated, has come from the depths 
of a heroic sincerity. 

478. Resemblance to Carlyle. — In their ardor for truth 
and righteousness there was a warm sympathy between Ruskin 
and Carlyle. Their admiration was mutual. Ruskin called 
Carlyle master; and Carlyle in return lauds Ruskin's divine ar- 
dor against unrighteousness. In a letter to Emerson, the sage 
of Chelsea writes : " There is nothing going on among us as 
notable to me as those fierce lightning bolts Ruskin is copiously 
and desperately pouring into the black world of anarchy all 
around him. No other man in England that I meet has in him 
the divine rage against iniquity, falsity, and baseness that Rus- 
kin has, and that every man ought to have." Yet there is a 
marked difference between these two great teachers. The femi- 
nine tenderness and inextinguishable hopefulness of Ruskin 
stand in marked contrast with the viking fierceness and intol- 
erant pessimism of Carlyle. 

John Ruskin was born in London, Feb. 8, 1819. His death 
occurred at Brantwood, Jan. 20, 1900. His father, a wine- 
merchant, united to a sound, practical judgment an unusual 
artistic and literary taste. He painted in water-colors ; and 
after the business cares of the day were over, he was accustomed 
to read aloud to the family the standard English authors. The 
legend on his tomb says : " He was an entirely honest merchant, 
and his memory is to all who keep it dear and helpful. His 
son, whom he loved to the uttermost, and taught to speak the 



VICTORIAN AGE. 271 

truth, says this of him." Ruskin's mother was a pious, prac- 
tical, aspiring woman, who ruled her household with diligent 
strictness. Both parents were Scotch, and transmitted to their 
son the courage and enthusiasm characteristic of the Celtic 
temperament, 

479. Art Critic. — Ruskin began his career as a critic of 
art in 1842. His attainments were extraordinary for a young 
man of twenty-three. Stimulated by Carlyle's " Heroes and 
Hero-Worship," he was ready to attempt a noteworthy achieve- 
ment in art. An occasion was not lacking. Turner had been 
attacked as untrue to nature; and with a truly chivalrous 
spirit, the young enthusiast championed the cause of his 
master. The result was the " Modern Painters," the first 
volume of which appeared early in 1843. 

The work created a storm. It boldly attacked popular fa- 
vorites; it set at defiance the conventional principles of art; 
it preached fidelity to nature, not only in its outward forms, 
but in its invisible spirit. It was confident and intolerant in 
tone. Yet it was written with such fulness of knowledge and 
such eloquence of description that, in spite of its iconoclastic 
audacity, it was widely read. It was attacked, but not refuted. 
Before the fifth and last volume appeared, seventeen years 
later, the " Modern Painters " had profoundly influenced popu- 
lar taste, in large measure hushed the hostile criticism of 
Turner, and in fact created a new era in the art criticism o* 
England. 

480. " The Seven Lamps." — In 1849 appeared one of his 
most popular works, " The Seven Lamps of Architecture." 
It points out the close relation between morality and art, and 
is a noble plea for sincerity and truth. " However mean or 
inconsiderable the act," he says, " there is something in the well 
doing of it which has fellowship with the noblest forms of 
manly virtue; and the truth, decision, and temperance, which 
we reverently regard as honorable conditions of the spiritual 
being, have a representative or derivative influence over the 
works of the hand, the movements of the frame, and the action 
of the intellect." -Though extreme sometimes in the application 
of his principles, he is always admirable in his zeal for truth. 



272 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

481. " Sesame and Lilies." — The most popular of all Rus- 
kin's works is " Sesame and Lilies," published in 1864. It 
consists of three lectures on reading, woman's education, and 
the mystery of life. These lectures were written with great 
earnestness, and are filled with sage counsel and noble thought. 
In them Ruskin gave of his best. In the last, which is per- 
vaded by a pathetic sadness, he declares the purpose of life 
to be service. " The greatest of all the mysteries of life, and 
the most terrible," he says, " is the corruption of even the 
sincerest religion, which is not founded on rational, effective, 
humble, and helpful action. Helpful action, observe ! for there 
is just one law, which obeyed, keeps all religions pure — for- 
gotten, makes them all false. Whenever in any religious faith, 
dark or bright, we allow our minds to dwell upon the points 
in which we differ from other people, we are wrong, and in the 
devil's power." 

482. Estimate of His Work. — In forming an estimate of 
his work, it must be admitted that Ruskin had too much ardor 
to be a judicious critic. He has sometimes allowed his affec- 
tions or his prejudices to sway his judgment; he has sometimes 
taken extreme and untenable positions. His vivid imagination 
has showed only what he wanted to see. While holding many 
advanced or radical ideas, he has been essentially a Tory and 
conservative. He had a romantic sympathy with the Middle 
Ages. He had an unreasonable prejudice against America; 
and his love of art and nature made him unfriendly to the 
commercial and manufacturing developments of the century. 

But whatever faults or limitations may be discovered in 
Ruskin, he stands as one of the great figures of English litera- 
ture in the Victorian Age. His rich gifts were unselfishly 
devoted, in many ways, to the uplifting and advancement of 
his fellow-men. Nearly the whole of his inherited fortune of 
a million dollars was spent in benevolent enterprises and in 
charity. In a style unsurpassed in richness of diction and elo- 
quence of form, he bravely upheld what he regarded as truth, 
not only in art, but also in the lives of men. 



VICTORIAN AGE. 273 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

The eruption of Vesuvius in " The Last Days of Pompeii." The 
social conditions of Alexandria as portrayed in Kingsley's " Hypatia." 
The character of " Mr. Midshipman Easy '' in Marryat's novel. A 
review of " The Cloister and the Hearth " of Charles Reade. The 
story of Stevenson's " Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." A character 
study of Mrs. Craik's " John Halifax, Gentleman." The Yorkshire 
schools as portrayed in Dickens' " Nickolas Nickleby." The auto- 
biographical elements in " David Copperfield," Foster's " Life of 
Dickens," Ward's "Life of Dickens" (English Men of Letters), 
Marzial's '"'Life of Dickens" (Great Writers Series). An outline 
of " A Christmas Carol." The character of Little Nell in " Old 
Curiosity Shop." The character of Becky Sharp in " Vanity Fair." 
A review of Thackeray's poetry. Selected paragraphs from his 
" English Humorists." A character study from " Henry Esmond," 
Trollope's "Life of Thackeray" (English Men of Letters), Meri- 
vale and Marzial's "Life of Thackeray" (Great Writers Series). 
A critique of Bronte's " Jane Eyre." The autobiographic elements 
in her " Shirley " and " Villette," Gaskell's " Life of Charlotte 
Bronte," Birrell's " Charlotte Bronte." 

Cross, " George Eliot's Life," Browning, " Life of George Eliot " 
('Great Writers Series), Brown, "Ethics of George Eliot," Lanier, 
" The English Novel." 

A comparison of George Eliot's style with that of Macaulay 
and De Quincey. A study of her lyrical poems, particularly the 
songs in " The Spanish Gypsy." Her estimate of the poet 
Young in " Worldliness and Other Worldliness." The story of 
" Silas Marner." The autobiographic elements in " The Mill on 
the Floss." A review of " Adam Bede." The character of Savon- 
arola as portrayed in " Romola." Lanier's estimate of George 
Eliot in his " The English Novel." 

A study of Lord Lytton's " Lucile." A review of Mrs. Brown- 
ing'' s " Aurora Leigh." Noteworthy passages from the " Sonnets 
from the Portuguese." A study of her lyrical poems. The story of 
Arnold's " Sohrab and Rustum." A critique of his best lyrics. 
What does he mean by the terms " Philistine," " Barbarian," 
"Hebraism," and "Hellenism"? See "Culture and Anarchy." 



274 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

What is Arnold's estimate of Emerson? See "Discourses in 
America." 

An outline of Ruskin's " King of the Golden River." Splendid 
descriptive passages from " Modern Painters." What are the 
"Seven Lamps of Architecture"? His attitude toward Work as 
shown in the " Crown of Wild Olive." What does Ruskin mean 
by King's Treasures in "Sesame and Lilies"? Ruskin's attitude 
toward woman as set forth in Lecture II of " Sesame and Lilies." 
The eccentricities of genius as illustrated in Ruskin, Collingwood's 
" Life of John Ruskin " and Ruskin's " Praeterita." 




Engraved by James Faed in 1854 after the painting by Sir Francis Grant, P.K.A. 



VICTORIAN AGE. 275 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 

483. Popularity. — Macaulay does not belong to the writ- 
ers who have been obliged to appeal from their own generation 
to a more discerning posterity. From the time he leaped into 
prominence by his essay on " Milton " at the age of twenty- 
five, he has been immensely popular. No other English writer 
except, perhaps, some of the great novelists, has been more 
widely read. Though nearly half a century has passed since 
his death, there is scarcely an abatement of popular interest 
in his works. His " History of England," his " Essays," and 
his " Lays of Ancient Rome " find a place in our cheap editions 
of standard works. In many homes they take their place by 
the side of the Bible and Shakespeare. 

484. Fortunate Parentage.— Macaulay counted his age by 
the years of the century, having been born Oct. 25, 1800, in 
Leicestershire. He was blessed in his parentage. His father 
Zachary Macaulay, of Scotch Presbyterian ancestry, was a man 
of strong character. Though sparing of words, he thought 
deeply; and he persisted in whatever he undertook with the 
tenacity of a stern sense of duty. He displayed a reformer's 
zeal for the abolition of slavery in the British dominions. 
Macaulay's mother, of Quaker descent, supplied the tender- 
ness and grace that might otherwise have been lacking in the 
home. She was a mild, affectionate woman; but, at the same 
time, she had the firmness and the good sense to hold her son 
in the line of duty and high achievement. 

485. Childish Precocity. — In his childhood Macaulay was 
regarded as nothing less than a prodigy. He acquired knowl- 
edge with astonishing ease and possessed an extraordinary 
power in casting it into literary form. At eight years he knew 
Scott's " Marmion " by heart. He produced history, epics, 
hymns, with surprising facility. But whatever joy these 



276 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

promises of future eminence may have awakened in his mothers 
breast, she took care not to stimulate his vanity. When he was 
thirteen, she gave him this sensible advice : " I know you write 
with great ease to yourself, and would rather write ten poems 
than prune one. All your pieces are much mended after a 
little reflection ; therefore, take your solitary walks and think 
over each separate thing. Spare not time or trouble, and 
render each piece as perfect as you can." 

486. At the University. — In 1818 he entered Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge. He exhibited an intense repugnance to 
mathematics. " Oh, for words to express my abomination of 
that science," he wrote to his mother, " if a name sacred to the. 
useful and embellishing arts may be applied to the perception 
and recollection of certain properties in numbers and figures ! " 
His dominant taste was for literature. While making excel- 
lent attainments in the ancient classics, he extended his read- 
ing over a wide field of modern literature. Poetry and fiction 
especially delighted him. His disposition was amiable and 
generous ; and among his large circle of friends he exercised 
an almost sovereign sway through his brilliant power of con- 
versation. With his large stores of knowledge and great com- 
mand of language, he naturally took high rank as a debater. 
His various writings of this period show that his literary 
faculties matured early, and that his distinctive style was a 
natural gift. 

487. Essay on Milton. — In 1825 he began his long series 
of contributions to the Edinburgh Review with his elaborate and 
well-known essay on " Milton." Though it contained, as he 
afterward said, " scarcely a paragraph such as his matured 
judgment approved," it almost took England by storm. It re- 
vealed the presence of a new force in literature. It introduced 
him with great eclat to the literary and social circles of the 
metropolis, where his genial nature and brilliant talk increased 
his popularity. At this period he was described by Henry 
Crabb Robinson as a man " overflowing with words, and not 
poor in thought." 

488. In Parliament. — He entered the legal profession in 
1826, but he had no liking for law, and got little practice. But 



THOMAS BABINGTON MAC AC LAY. 277 

his talents were generally recognized, and a wider career soon 
opened to him. In 1830 he entered Parliament and speedily 
took a foremost place. As a Whig, he warmly supported the 
Reform Bill of 1832. His first speech created little less than 
a sensation ; and afterward, says Gladstone, " whenever he 
rose to speak, it was a summons like a trumpet-call to fill the 
benches." His perspicuous thought, his copious diction, and 
his vigorous utterance all gave him great power as a speaker. 
He was a hard worker, and throughout his political career 
he exhibited not only an incorruptible integrity, but also a self- 
sacrificing devotion to the welfare of his country. During this 
laborious period, in the spare moments gained by early rising, 
he wrote some of his best-known essays, among which are 
" Moore's Life of Lord Byron," " Samuel Johnson," " John 
Hampden," and " Lord Burleigh." 

489. An Insatiable Reader. — In 1834 Macaulay sailed for 
India as legal adviser to the Supreme Council. It was a sac- 
rifice to leave his native country and well-earned fame ; but 
his new office, which paid a salary of ten thousand pounds, 
brought him the means to provide better for those dependent 
upon him. He spent the long voyage in reading. " Except at 
meals," he said, " I hardly exchanged a word with any human 
being. I devoured Greek, Latin, Spanish, Italian, French, and 
English." He was always an insatiable reader ; history, travels, 
novels, poetry — he devoured them all with but little dis- 
crimination. He possessed the uncommon faculty of " riding 
post" through an author; and frequently mastered a volume 
during a morning's walk. As often happens with far less 
vigorous minds, books were allowed to take the place of re- 
flection. To use the words of Gladstone, " He was always 
conversing or recollecting or reading or composing; but re- 
flecting, never." 

490. Work in India. — Macaulay was a man of strong per- 
sonality, of great good sense, and of indefatigable industry. 
In Calcutta, as in London, he accomplished, apart from his 
special office, a large amount of valuable work. As chairman 
of the Committee of Public Instruction, he exerted a decisive 
influence on the educational policy of India. Instead of en- 



278 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

couraging Oriental learning, he maintained that " the great 
object of the British government ought to be the promotion of 
European literature and science among the natives of India." 
During his four years' stay in India he wrote only two articles 
for the Edinburgh Review; but one of these was the famous 
essay on " Bacon." He returned to England in 1838. 

491. A Tour in Italy. — A few months after his return he 
made a tour in Italy. His familiarity with Latin and Italian 
literature prepared him to enjoy in rich measure the historic 
associations of the country. He was sensitive to architectural 
beauty, and St. Peter's made a deep impression on him. " I 
really could have cried with pleasure," he wrote. He used this 
journey to verify the local coloring of his " Lays of Ancient 
Rome." " I then went to the river," he wrote again, " to the 
spot where the old Pons Sublicius stood, and looked about to 
see how my ' Horatius ' agreed with the topography. Pretty 
well; but his house must be on Mount Palatine, for he could 
never see Mount Coelius from the spot where he fought." Ac- 
cordingly, we read in the poem, — 

" But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home ; 
And he spake to the noble river 
That rolls by the towers of Rome." 

492. The Essays. — On his return to England, Macaulay 
was again elected to Parliament. Though political interests, 
to a greater or less degree, engaged his attention all his life, 
we turn to a consideration of his literary achievements. And 
first in time, and if the popular estimate is to be taken, first in 
importance, are the " Essays." The chief of these appeared in 
the Edinburgh Review between 1825 and 1844. They cover a 
wide field and may be divided into two principal groups — 
historical and critical. In English history we have the essays 
on "Burleigh," " Hallam," " Hampden," " Temple," " Mackin- 
tosh," " Walpole," " Chatham," " Give," and " Warren Hast- 
ings," which taken together give a tolerably complete view of 
the period between Elizabeth and George III. Among the 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAU LAY. m 

essays treating of continental history, " Machiavelli," " Mira- 
beau," " Frederic," and above all " Von Ranke," deserve spe- 
cial mention. The critical essays include, as will be seen, a 
considerable number of the most prominent English writers : 
" Addison," " Bacon," " Bunyan," " Byron," " Dryden," 
" Johnson," and " Milton." 

These " Essays " were produced in the vigor of early man- 
hood, and most of them under the stress of a busy political life. 
Instead of constituting Macaulay's main vocation, they were 
little more than recreations. He wrote, to use his own expres- 
sion, because his head was full. While lacking in critical acu- 
men, judicial fairness, and indisputable accuracy, they display 
astonishing resources of diction, unequalled clearness of 
thought, and a masterful knowledge of history. Any absence 
of delicacy in touch is amply compensated by a spacious canvas 
and unstinted color. Macaulay may be fairly styled the Rubens 
of essayists. 

493- Qualities of Style. — His style, about which so much 
has been said, is preeminently rhetorical and declamatory. It is 
better adapted to oral discourse than that of any other English 
author. It is essentially the same style that appears in his elo- 
quent parliamentary speeches. It abounds in repetitions for 
the sake of clearness; in tremendous emphasis of statement; 
in a luxuriant expansion and illustration of ideas. Though 
natural to him, it has the appearance of being artificial. It 
surrenders its flexibility to the demands of a uniform rhetorical 
movement. It lacks the freedom and melody of the best forms 
of prose; and in spite of its striking antitheses and its agree- 
able succession of long and short sentences, there is an un- 
varied sameness of tone that at length grows tiresome. While 
in Macaulay's hands it was capable of splendid results, it is not 
a style to be blindly imitated. 

His mind was quick, direct, and vigorous in its operations. 
It soon caught the main outlines of a subject. With a few 
prominent points before him, Macaulay proceeded to fill in his 
picture from the ample resources of his memory and imagina- 
tion. There is an absence of gentle gradation and subdued 
tints. But whatever may be lacking in fine discrimination and 



28o ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

exquisite delicacy, there is always an unfailing lucidity and 
impressive power. 

494. Partisan Attitude. — These considerations throw 
light on a serious and acknowledged failing. Macaulay is gen- 
erally a partisan. While he was thoroughly honest at heart, 
and while he would have scorned to do any one intentional 
wrong, yet the clearness and impetuosity of his mental pro- 
cesses sometimes hurried him to unwarranted conclusions. He 
was deficient in judicial calmness and reserve. Hence, how- 
ever interesting his treatment, and however imposing his asser- 
tions, it must be confessed that his conclusions are not always 
decisive and final. 

495. Facts Rather than Principles. — Macaulay lacked 
philosophic depth, but was sensitive to dramatic situation. He 
delighted in facts rather than in principles. He preferred to 
describe events rather than to trace their underlying causes. 
It may be doubted whether he appreciated the subtle feeling 
of the finest poetry. In his literary criticism we miss a lumi- 
nous interpretation of exquisite passages. He frankly admitted 
that criticisms like Goethe's "Hamlet " or Lessing's " Laocoon " 
were at once his admiration and despair. 

496. " Lays of Ancient Rome." — Macaulay was not a 
poet, yet he published a slender volume of poems that have 
kept their place as a popular favorite. These are the " Lays of 
Ancient Rome," which were published in 1842. In the preface 
the author tells us that he speaks, not in his own person, but 
in the person of ancient minstrels, who know only what a 
Roman citizen, born four or five hundred years before the 
Christian era, may be supposed to have known, and who are 
in no wise above the passions and prejudices of their age and 
nation. In this way the legends of Horatius defending the 
bridge, of the battle of Regillus, of the slaying of Virginia, and 
of the prophecy of Capys are treated. Macaulay frankly ac- 
knowledges his indebtedness to the old English ballad, to Scott, 
and above all to Homer. He reproduces the heroic spirit, and 
especially the patriotic devotion of the ancient Roman, in a 
manner deeply impressive. 

497. Method as a Historian. — As a historian Macaulay 



THOMAS BAB1NGT0N MACAULAY. 281 

is distinctly modern in his aims and methods. Instead of ac- 
cepting traditional or legendary views, he goes to the original 
sources of information. Whatever fault may be found with 
some of his conclusions, his painstaking research is universally 
acknowledged. He shared the democratic tendency of his age, 
and in his " History " he attaches importance, not simply to 
the fate of princes, but also to the life of the common people. 
" It will be my endeavor," he says in the first chapter of the 
" History of England," " to relate the history of the people as 
well as the history of the government, to trace the progress of 
useful and ornamental arts, to describe the rise of religious 
sects and the changes of literary taste, to portray the manners 
of successive generations, and not to pass by with neglect even 
the revolutions which have taken place in dress, furniture, and 
public amusements." 

498. " History of England." — The " History of England," 
completed in 1855, exhibits the same general characteristics ex- 
emplified in the " Essays." Its style is rhetorical, pellucid, and 
strong. It abounds in admirable descriptions of persons, places, 
and events. It has been styled, not unjustly, a veritable por- 
trait gallery. To use his own language, it invests " with the 
reality of human flesh and blood beings whom we are too much 
inclined to consider as personified qualities in an allegory; calls 
up our ancestors before us with all their peculiarities of lan- 
guage, manners, and garb; shows us over their houses, seats 
us at their tables, rummages their old-fashioned wardrobes, ex- 
plains the uses of their ponderous furniture." But, at the same 
time, it frequently shows a partisan bias. In the multitude of 
details it sacrifices a true perspective; and throughout it all 
there is a singular lack of philosophic spirit. 

499. Closing Years. — The closing years of Macaulay's life 
are not free from pathos. He had been a strong man physically, 
broad-shouldered and stout-limbed. He was blessed with a 
superabounding energy and spirit that made him the life of 
every company. But at last, in 1852, he was suddenly stricken 
with heart disease, which was soon followed by an incurable 
asthma. Thus to be shorn of his strength was a cruel blow. 
" I became," he says, " twenty years older in a week." 



282 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

500. Sterling Worth. — But his sterling worth never 
showed itself to better advantage than in the trials of broken 
health. He sustained his sufferings with a cheerful fortitude. 
He was faithful in every duty, whether public or private. He 
never lost his tender consideration for those about him. He 
faced death calmly, thinking chiefly of the sorrow of those 
whom he loved. The end came December 28, 1859, an d a few 
days later he was laid to rest in the Poet's Corner of West- 
minster Abbey. " Absolutely without literary affectation," to 
borrow the words of Justin McCarthy, " undepressed by early 
poverty, unspoiled by later and almost unequalled success, he 
was an independent, quiet, self-relying man, who, in all his 
noon of fame, found most happiness in the companionship and 
the sympathy of those he loved, and who, from first to last, 
was loved most tenderly by those who knew him best." 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Trevelyan, "Life and Letters of Macaulay," Morison, "Life of 
Macaulay " (English Men of Letters), Arnold "Mixed Essays," 
McCarthy, " History of Our Own Times," Harrison, " Early Vic- 
torian Literature." 

A comparison of Macaulay's and De Quincey's style, Painter's 
" Guide to Literary Criticism," Part II. The partisan spirit of 
Macaulay as exemplified in his sketch of Boswell in the " Essay on 
Samuel Johnson." Select one or more brilliant passages from the 
" Essay on Von Ranke." What was Macaulay's estimate of Milton ? 
A summary of his views on historical writing as presented in his 
" Essay on History." A study of " Horatius " in the " Lays of 
Ancient Rome." Several character sketches from the " History of 
England." 

"The Trial of Warren Hastings" will be found among the selec- 
tions of Part II. 




Photograph after the painting by G. F. Watts. 



/khn/ir ih^vjmi^i r 



VICTORIAN AGE. 283 



ROBERT BROWNING. 

501. Originality. — Robert Browning was strikingly orig- 
inal in his poetry and paid the penalty of originality. He de- 
veloped a new vein in English literature; he set himself to ex- 
plore the mysterious workings of the soul. He descended to 
greater depths than our poetical literature had before reached. 
Finding the conventional style of poetry unsuited to his pur- 
pose, he invented new forms. He devised the dramatic mono- 
logue, in which various states of the soul, in relation to 
outward circumstances, are powerfully portrayed. But this de- 
parture from conventional form did not at once find popular 
favor. Indeed, the public seemed for a time to resent this inno- 
vation ; and so, like many other great original characters, he 
was slow in gaining recognition. Almost a half century of 
abundant labors elapsed before he reached what not a few re- 
gard as a foremost place among English poets. 

502. Parentage. — Robert Browning was born at Camber- 
well, a suburb of London, May 7, 18 12. His father was a man 
of vigorous constitution and scholarly taste ; and for rare books 
he had, it is said, " the scent of a hound and the snap of a bull- 
dog." With a passion for reading, he was strangely indifferent 
to what are known as " creature comforts " ; and his daughter 
declared that the announcement " There will be no dinner to- 
day," would only have elicited the placid reply, " All right, my 
dear, it is of no consequence." Browning's mother was de- 
scribed by Carlyle as " the true type of a Scottish gentle- 
woman " ; and another said that she had no need to go to 
heaven, because she made it wherever she was. But she trans- 
mitted to her son a nervous constitution which, however help- 
ful to his poetic sensibilities, added to his physical discomfort 
in the latter years of his life. 

503. Period of Unrest. — His youthful period was one of 



284 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

singular unrest. For a time he passed under the influence of 
Shelley and imbibed some of the radical tenets of " Queen 
Mab." Instead of attending one of the great public schools, 
he studied at home under private instructors. He acquired a 
good knowledge of French, and enriched his store of informa- 
tion by copious miscellaneous reading. For a short time he at- 
tended London University, but omitted logic and mathematics 
from his course of study. He gave himself seriously to the 
study of music, in which, as is apparent from his works, he 
made unusual attainments. In his eighteenth year he deter- 
mined to adopt poetry as his vocation, a choice which was will- 
ingly acquiesced in by his father. As a preliminary step to this 
calling, he read and digested the whole of Johnson's " Dic- 
tionary " — a fact that in a measure explains his almost un- 
equalled mastery of the resources of our language. 

504. " Pauline." — In 1833 Browning published his first 
poem " Pauline." Though in after years he spoke of it slight- 
ingly, it was a remarkable production for a young man who 
had not yet attained his majority. To a few discerning read- 
ers, among them John Stuart Mill, it gave promise of great 
things. Both in its melody and imagery it contains a percepti- 
ble echo of Shelley; but at the same time it reveals not a few 
of the author's distinguishing characteristics. The poem at 
first appeared anonymously; and it is a remarkable tribute to 
its excellence that D. G. Rossetti, meeting with it the first time 
in the British Museum, made a full copy of it. The poem is 
largely autobiographical and contains many fine passages. 

505. " Paracelsus." — In 1835 he published his poem " Par- 
acelsus," which shows a marked advance in maturity of thought 
and style as compared with " Pauline." It is a free, imagina- 
tive treatment of the historic Paracelsus, who flourished as a 
famous alchemist and physician at the beginning of the six- 
teenth century. Somewhat like Goethe's " Faust," the poem 
presents to us the eager aspirations, the daring efforts, and the 
ultimate failure of a soul in ihe pursuit of superhuman knowl- 
edge. In the preface to the first edition, the author states the 
fundamental principle of his dramatic pieces. " Instead of hav- 
ing recourse," he says, " to an external machinery of incidents 



ROBERT BROWNING. 285 

to create and evolve the crisis I desire to produce, I have ven- 
tured to display somewhat minutely the mood itself in its rise 
and progress, and have suffered the agency by which it is "in- 
fluenced and determined, to be generally discernible in its ef- 
fects alone, and subordinate throughout, if not altogether ex- 
cluded." This principle is so pervasive in Browning's poetry 
that it should be clearly understood. 

506. " Sordello."— In 1840 appeared " Sordello," a poem 
of six thousand lines, on which the poet had been working for 
several years. It illustrates his fondness for mediaeval themes; 
and though he made elaborate researches to furnish him a 
background, the principal interest of the poem is in the devel- 
opment of soul life. It presents Browning's peculiarities — his 
psychological analysis, his rapid movement of thought, and his 
sudden transitions — in their most exaggerated form. It is 
obscure to an unsual degree and never can be popular beyond 
a very narrow circle. It has been variously judged by distin- 
guished critics. Stedman pronounces it " a fault throughout 
. . . an unattractive prodigy," while Gosse professes to be 
able to " find a thousand reasons why ' Sordello ' ought to be 
one of the most readable of books." The great majority of 
readers will agree with Stedman, and regret that the author's 
attempt to rewrite it in a more intelligible manner was a 
failure. 

507. " Bells and Pomegranates." — With " Sordello " the 
poet completed the first stage of his development. Up to this 
time his work had been a reflection of his own experience. In 
some measure " Paracelsus " and " Sordello " stood for Brown- 
ing. But with the " Bells and Pomegranates " series, which ap- 
peared between 1841 and 1846, he entered into a broader sym- 
pathy with human life. He outgrew the trammels of self. 
" Bells and Pomegranates," a title signifying an alternation of 
poetry with thought, contains some of his choicest productions. 
The first of the series is the beautiful drama of " Pippa Passes," 
which consists of four scenes, with prologue, interludes, and 
epilogue. Its heroine is " a little black-eyed, pretty, singing 
Felippa, gay silk-winding girl," whose artless singing on a holi- 



286 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

day marks a turning-point in the troubled lives of those whom 
she fondly imagines to be " Asolo's four happiest ones." 

508. " My Last Duchess." — There is no other poem in all 
Browning's works that better illustrates his dramatic mono- 
logue than " My Last Duchess." For this reason, as well as 
for its artistic excellence, it deserves special attention. The 
speaker is a nobleman of aristocratic pride and high culture, 
but at the same time of a cold and selfish nature. He was a 
connoisseur in art. He had married a young and beautiful 
lady, whose love and cheerfulness filled the palace with sun- 
shine : — ■ 

" She had 
A heart — how shall I say? — too easily made glad. 
Too easily impressed ; she liked whate'er 
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere." 

The proud and unfeeling duke looked on this sweet light- 
heartedness as unbecoming her station ; and, accordingly, he 
commanded her to assume an artificial and haughty dignity. 
The result was, that joy, and hope, and love, were crushed out 
of her life, and she died of a broken heart : — 

" Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, 
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without 
Much the same smile ? This grew ; I gave command ; 
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 
As if alive." 

The duke had entered into negotiations for the daughter of 
a count and has received the latter's agent to settle the details 
of dowry. While showing him through the palace, the duke 
stops before the picture of his last wife, and here the poem 
begins: — ■ 

" That's my last duchess painted on the wall, 
Looking as if she were alive." 

The poem is a tragedy in sixty lines ; but in place of ex- 
ternal actions, we have a revelation of character and states of 
the soul. 



ROBERT BROWNING. 287 

509. Fundamental Ideas. — Some of Browning's funda- 
mental ideas are found in " Bells and Pomegranates." He 
looked upon human life as a struggle, in which the soul is to 
climb upwards, through successive attainments, toward divine 
perfection. In his drama " Luria," he says : — 

" How inexhaustibly the spirit grows ! 
One object, she seemed erewhile born to reach - 
With her whole energies and die content, — 
So like a wall at the earth's edge it stood, 
With naught beyond to live for, — is that reached? — 
Already are new undreamed energies 
Outgrowing under, and extending farther 
To a new object; there's another world!" 

Among the other pieces of the " Bells and Pomegranates " 
series which deserve mention, are " The Pied Piper of Hame- 
lin," written to amuse the little son of the actor Macready, 
and " Saul," which ranks high among Browning's poems. 

510. Marriage. — In 1846 Browning married Miss Elizabeth 
Barrett, to whom he had been drawn by her poetic gifts. She. 
was an invalid and his senior by six years. Owing to antici- 
pated opposition on both sides, the marriage was secret; and 
shortly after the ceremony the happy couple started to Italy, 
where, with short intervals, they lived till the death of Mrs. 
Browning in 1861. There was deep intellectual and spiritual 
sympathy between them; and with self-sacrifice on his part, 
and resignation on hers, the union, in spite of her continued 
invalid condition, was one of rare beauty and happiness. 

511. "Men and Women." — In 1855 appeared "Men and 
Women " in two volumes, a work that, upon the whole, repre- 
sents the highest achievement of Browning's genius. " Evelyn 
Hope," " Fra Lippo Lippi," " By the Fireside," " Strange Medi- 
cal Experiences of Karshish," " The Last Ride Together," 
" Bishop Blougram's Apology," " Andrea del Sarto," " Old Pic- 
tures in Florence," " In a Balcony," " Cleon," and others are 
notable poems. In their variety and depth they reveal the 
many-sidedness of the poet's gifts. In several of these poems 



288 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

we have Browning's views of art. He does not believe in the 
heresy of " art for art's sake." He recognizes the all-pervasive 
presence of Deity in nature; and it is the office of art to lead 
us toward the fulness of divine truth and beauty. The artist 
should have clearer vision than other men, and reveal to us 
the beauty that would otherwise pass unnoticed. Mere skill in 
craftsmanship is not enough to constitute a great artist; he 
must also have the uplifting power of a lofty purpose: — 

" Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, 
Or what's heaven for?" 

These are the truths impressively presented in " Andrea del 
Sarto," the faultless painter. 

512. " Dramatis Personae." — In 1864 ne published " Dra- 
matis Personae," which contains several poems of marked ex- 
cellence. Among these are " Abt Vogler," " Rabbi Ben Ezra," 
and " A Death in the Desert." In the first we find an expres- 
sion of the poet's belief that all the good we hope or dream in 
this life — the ideals we cherish — will hereafter be realized. 
" On the earth the broken arcs ; in the heaven a perfect 
round : " — 

" All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, shall exist ; 

Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty nor good nor power, 
Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist, 

When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. 
The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, 

The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, 
Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard ; 

Enough that he heard it once ; we shall hear it by and by." 

513. " The Ring and the Book." — The fame of Browning 
was now well established. A younger generation, untrammelled 
by conventional prejudices, found delight and profit in his 
works. In 1867 he was honored by Oxford with the degree of 
A.M., and a few months later he was made honorary fellow of 
Balliol College. In 1868 appeared " The Ring and the Book," 
a poem of twenty-one thousand lines. It has been pronounced 



ROBERT BROWNING. 280 

" the most precious and profound spiritual treasure that Eng- 
land has produced since the days of Shakespeare." While it 
is not necessary to accept this enthusiastic estimate, it is un- 
questionably a great poem. Of its twelve long cantos, " Pom- 
pilia " and " the Pope " are the best ; the former is a simple nar- 
rative of the tragedy, the latter a fine soliloquy. 

514. Fondness for Greek. — Browning was passionately 
fond of the Greek language and literature, and in the period 
under consideration he made three transcripts from the Greek 
tragedians. These were " Balaustion's Adventure," containing 
a version of the " Alcestis " of Euripides, " Aristophanes' Apol- 
ogy," containing the " Herakles " of Euripides, and " The Aga- 
memnon " of ^Eschylus. They reach a high degree of excel- 
lence, and in the first two the dramas of Euripides receive an 
additional interest from their setting. It is remarkable that 
Browning, with his great fondness for Greek literature, refused 
to regard even its best writers as models of style. 

515. A Peculiarity of Method.— In "Prince Hohenstiel- 
Schwangau," a thin disguise for Napoleon III., we have a de- 
fence of the policy of expediency. This poem illustrates a 
peculiarity of Browning's method. In defending a principle or 
course of action which the poet at heart regards as false, the 
hero of the piece is made to present truths of the weightiest 
import. This is true in " Bishop Blougram's Apology," and 
especially in " Fifine at the Fair." In the latter poem, while 
defending inconstancy in love, the speaker deals with some of 
the deepest problems of philosophy and life. Take this passage, 
for example : — 

" I search but cannot see 
What purpose serves the soul that strives, or world it tries 
Conclusions with, unless the fruit of victories 
Stay, one and all, stored up and guaranteed its own 
Forever, by some mode whereby shall be made known 
The gain of every life. Death reads the title clear — 
What each soul for itself conquered from out things here." 

516. Closing Years. — In its essential features the char- 
acter of Browning might be inferred from the preceding survey 



2qo ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of his life and writings. His poetry was the honest expression 
of his thought and feeling. In the unfriendly reception his 
works long met with, he showed the strength of conscious 
genius. With something of the sublime confidence of Words- 
worth, he pitied the ignorance of his critics and counted on 
future recognition. As he grew older, he had a large circle of 
devoted friends; he was particularly drawn to noble women, 
who repaid him in admiration and affection. Though of a 
modest, retiring nature — so much so that he could never make 
a public speech — he was often a brilliant talker. He bestowed 
much labor on the revision of his poems. " People accuse 
me," he said, " of not taking pains ! I take nothing but pains." 
In his later years he worked regularly, and counted that day 
as lost in which he had not written something. In his political 
and social views he was an avowed liberal and sympathized 
especially with the movement for the emancipation of women. 
His last years brought increasing physical infirmity, and he 
died at the home of his son in Venice, Dec. 12, 1889. A few 
days later, his body was buried in the Poets' Corner of West- 
minster Abbey. 

517. A Great Teacher. — Like Tennyson, Browning was a 
great teacher, a prophet for his people. He taught the reality 
of invisible things. The age needed his message. For many 
years there has been a strong drift in the direction of what is 
visible and perishable. To many life has seemed a hard and 
hopeless struggle — a brief period of toil and suffering, which 
ends at last in darkness. In the midst of these wrong and de- 
pressing tendencies, Browning appeared with a voice of cour- 
age and hope. He preached God, and righteousness, and im- 
mortality, not in the language of cant, but with the freshness 
and vigor of one conscious of a divine mission. 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Orr (Mrs.), "Life and Letters of Browning," Sharp, "Life of 
Browning" (Great Writers Series), Stedman, "Victorian Poets," 



ROBERT BROWNING. 291 

Alexander, " Introduction to Browning," Cooke, " Browning Guide 
Book," Corson, " Introduction to Browning." 

A study of the diction and versification of the selections given, 
Painter's " Guide to Literary Criticism," Part III. A critique of 
the following poems : " Incident of the French Camp," " The Last 
Ride Together," " The Pied Piper of Hamelin," " Prospice," " Con- 
fessions," " Abt Vogler," " Rabbi Ben Ezra," " Pheidippides," " The 
Flight of the Duchess." 

The story of the two dramas " Luria " and " A Blot on the 
'Scutcheon." 

Character studies of Andrea del Sarto and his wife Lucrezia. 
An analysis of " Cleon." A review of " An Epistle containing the 
Strange Medical Experiences of Karshish, the Arab Physician." 
A study of "A Death in the Desert." 

In the study of all these poems, the use of the Introductions 
mentioned above is earnestly recommended. These little works will 
give the student a clear insight into the spirit and method of 
Browning, after which he will go forward with satisfaction and 
delight in the perusal of this great poet and teacher. 

"The Lost Leader" "How They Brought the Good News from 
Ghent to Aix" "Evelyn Hope'' "Home-Thoughts from Abroad" 
"My Last Duchess," and " Herve Riel" are given among the selec- 
tions of Part II. 



292 ENGLISH LITERATURE, 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 



518. Faith in Heredity. — Carlyle had strong faith in the 
principle of heredity. In his famous Edinburgh address, he 
says : " There is a great deal more in genealogy than is gen- 
erally believed at present. I never heard tell of any clever 
man that came of entirely stupid people." In his own bio- 
graphical writings he gives prominence to ancestry and in his 
" Reminiscences," he pays an affectionate tribute to his parents, 
from whom, as he points out, he inherited his leading physical 
and mental characteristics. Along with extraordinary mental 
vigor, his father, who was a mason, spoke in a style bold, glow- 
ing, and picturesque. His mother possessed the sturdy sense 
and forceful uprightness that made her a worthy companion of 
her husband. They lived in humble circumstances at Eccle- 
fechan, Scotland, where their gifted son was born Dec. 4, 1795. 

519. At the University. — It was the wish of his father 
that he should study for the ministry; and, accordingly, in 1809, 
he was sent to the University of Edinburgh. He made the 
journey of nearly a hundred miles on foot. Not many details 
of his university career have been preserved. He studied 
diligently, lived in comparative seclusion, and devoted a con- 
siderable part of his time to miscellaneous reading. From 
the chaos of the library he fished up " more books perhaps than 
had been known to the keepers thereof. The foundation of a 
literary life was hereby laid." Like Bacon, Milton, and a few 
other illustrious English authors, he found fault with the sub- 
jects of study and methods of instruction. In the autobio- 
graphical part of " Sartor," he says, with humorous exaggeration : 
" It is my painful duty to say that, out of England and Spain, 
ours was the worst of all hitherto discovered universities." He 
completed his studies in 1814; and while none of his professors 
seem to have discovered his ability, his intimate associates, with 
greater discernment, foretold his future eminence. 




Photograph after the painting by G. F. Watts. 



/Tv^/W^/Cp Vw^rk,U^ 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 293 

520. Dislike of Teaching. — After leaving the university, 
Carlyle taught for two years an Annan, and afterward, for 
the same length of time, at Kirkcaldy. He was faithful in his 
pedagogical labors; but because he preferred his books to the 
visitation of his patrons, he acquired a reputation for unsoci- 
ability. But pedagogy was not his vocation. His native dislike 
to teaching soon grew into a settled abhorrence. " At the end," 
to use his own words, " my solitary, desperate conclusion was 
fixed : that I, for my own part, would prefer to perish in the 
ditch, if necessary, rather than continue living by such a trade, 
and peremptorily gave it up accordingly." At Kirkcaldy he had 
his first romance, which appears in idealized form in " Sartor." 

521. Doubt and Unbelief. — Carlyle had not yet found his 
work. His inability to subscribe to the creeds of the church led 
him to give up the ministry. In 18 18 he went to Edinburgh, 
where he taught a few private pupils and, at the same time, 
studied law. Dyspepsia, which remained a plague throughout 
life, began to torment him, and to tinge his thought with gloom. 
He fell into a state of doubt and unbelief, which in " Sartor " 
he describes as " The Everlasting No." " We see him quite 
shut out from hope ; looking, not into the golden Orient, but 
vaguely, all around, into a dim, copper firmament, pregnant 
with earthquake and tornado." In his gloom and discourage- 
ment, he thought for a time, as did Burns, Coleridge, and 
Southey, of emigrating to America. 

522. " The Everlasting Yea." — From this state of doubt 
and unbelief, which he calls his temptation in the wilderness, 
he finally passed into a permanent condition of faith. " This is 
The Everlasting Yea, wherein whoso walks and works, it is 
well with him." This experience, which was a kind of re- 
generation, was the great turning-point in Carlyle's life. It 
made him henceforth a positive force for truth and righteous- 
ness. Nature seemed to him as the vesture of God; life was 
filled with significance ; duty became sacred ; and an infinite love 
and pity took possession of his heart. He now had his divine 
commission as teacher; and with the courage and fidelity of a 
Hebrew prophet, he delivered his message. 

523. Literary Career. — He gave up the study of law; and 



2Q4 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

after a series of tentative efforts, not unattended with discour- 
agements, he finally embarked upon the literary career, for 
which nature evidently intended him. His first work was the 
contribution of sixteen articles, mostly biographical, to the 
" Edinburgh Encyclopaedia." He translated Legendre's " Geom- 
etry " from the French — a task in which his superior mathe- 
matical gifts stood him in great stead. But far more im- 
portant was his work in German, the influence of which on his 
style, his thought, and the intellectual life of England can hard- 
ly be overestimated. He made himself the best German scholar 
in the British Isles and did more than any other writer to ac- 
quaint the English people with the treasures of German liter- 
ature. He made translations from -Fouque, Tieck, Hoffman, 
Richter, Schiller, and, above all, Goethe. His " Life of Schil- 
ler " appeared in 1823 and Goethe's " Wilhelm Meister " in 
1824. During these years he was tutor to Charles Buller (after- 
ward a distinguished member of Parliament) at a salary of two 
hundred pounds. 

525. Marriage. — In 1826, after a courtship which lasted 
through several years and which was not free from storms, 
Carlyle married Jane Baillie Welsh, a woman who, above him 
in birth, was scarcely his inferior in intellect. Though there 
was genuine affection on both sides, the union was not ideally 
happy. With all her charming graces " Jeannie " had a sharp 
tongue; and in sarcasm she was a match for her gifted hus- 
band. Occasion was not lacking. With an intense devotion to 
his work, Carlyle sacrificed his friends as completely as him- 
self. The honeymoon was scarcely over till he buried himself 
in his studies ; and throughout the forty years of his married 
life he in a large measure sacrificed domestic comfort and com- 
panionship to his literary pursuits and ambitions. 

Patience was not one of " Jeannie's " virtues, and it is sig- 
nificant that she wrote to a young friend, " My dear, whatever 
you do, never marry a man of genius." But in spite of all dis- 
cord and complaints, she exhibited a beautiful devotion; and 
when she died in 1866, she was not undeserving of the noble 
tribute her grief-stricken husband paid her: "My noble one! 
I say deliberately her part in the stern battle, and except my- 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 295 

self none knows how stern, was brighter and braver than my 
own. Thanks, darling, for your shining words and acts, which 
were continual in my eyes, and in no other mortal's. Worth- 
less I was of your divinity, wrapt in your perpetual love of me 
and pride in me, in defiance of all men and things. Oh, was it 
not beautiful ! " 

526. Great Essays. — After his marriage Carlyle took up 
his residence for a time in Edinburgh, where he enjoyed the 
friendship of Sir William Hamilton, Sir David Brewster, De 
Quincey, whose unfavorable review of " Wilhelm Meister " had 
been forgiven, and, above all, of Jeffrey, who took a deep inter- 
est in the struggling author. Jeffrey opened to him the Edin- 
burgh Review, in which appeared in 1827 " Richter " and " The 
State of German Literature." These were the first of a splen- 
did series of historical and critical reviews, which came out in 
the leading periodicals of the day, and which made him, with 
the possible exception of Macaulay, the foremost essayist of the 
century. He toiled tremendously at the tasks he undertook ; and 
his essays are characterized by exhaustive research, deep phil- 
osophical insight, rare independence of judgment, and a passion- 
ate energy of expression. Among the essays especially note- 
worthy, if a distinction may be made where all attain a high 
degree of excellence, are "Goethe," "Burns," "Voltaire," 
" Signs of the Times," " Novalis," " Characteristics," " Bos- 
well's Life of Johnson," and " Sir Walter Scott." 

527. " Sartor Resartus." — In 1828 Carlyle moved to 
Craigenputtoch — the Hill of the Hawks — where the next six 
years of his life w r ere spent in great seclusion. Craigenputtoch 
was a remote farm in Dumfriesshire, of which the best that can 
be said is, that it was not " the dreariest spot in the British 
dominions." It was here that in 1^31 he wrote " Sartor Re- 
sartus " — The Tailor Patched. It is the first book in which his 
strong personality found complete expression. Under the char- 
acter of Teufelsdroeckh, he pours forth, sometimes in the high- 
est form of prose-poetry, his deepest thoughts on individual and 
social life. While it might be styled a treatise on things in 
general, its one great purpose is to teach the important lesson of 
discriminating between appearances and realities. It is echoed 



296 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

in Tennyson and Emerson. Though Carlyle afterward modi- 
fied some of his views, " Sartor " contains substantially the 
great prophetic message he had for the world. 

528. Change of Popular Sentiment. — As his wife fin- 
ished reading the last pages, she said, " It is a work of genius, 
dear." Her judgment, which rarely erred in literary matters, 
has been abundantly sustained. Carlyle had done his best and 
naturally regarded the result with favor. But the London pub- 
lishers were slow to discover its merits. Its daring originality 
shocked the conventional taste of the time, and, to the great 
chagrin of the author, he could not get it published for two 
years. When at length it appeared serially in Eraser's Maga- 
zine, it was almost universally decried for what was called its 
obscure and barbarous style. There were only two people, Car- 
lyle said, who found in it anything worth reading, — Emerson 
and an Irish priest. But he lived to see a change — one of the 
most remarkable in the annals of English literature. Before 
his death " Sartor Resartus " had become one of the most 
popular and most influential books of the century. It is note- 
worthy that its excellence was first recognized in America. 

529. Style. — Much has been said about Carlyle's style, 
which first appears in its fully developed form in " Sartor." 
Sterling, in an interesting letter quoted by Carlyle himself, points 
out its leading peculiarities, — its barbarous words, its abuse of 
compounds, its license of invention, and its German construc- 
tions. Certainly it is different from that of any other English 
writer, and has justly called for the designation " Carlylese." 
But whatever may be its peculiarities, there can be no doubt 
that it was his natural method of utterance and that it was 
an instrument of tremendous power. It originated, as Froude 
tells us, " in the old farm-house at Annandale. The humor 
of it came from his mother. The form was his father's 
common mode of speech, and had been adopted by himself for 
its brevity and emphasis." Its rugged form — its " nodulosities 
and angularities" — was exactly suited to his rugged character. 
Its words fairly shriek from the pages. It is exceedingly con- 
crete (Carlyle hated abstractions), and abounds in remote allu- 
sions, from which arises its principal obscurity. 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 297 

530. " French Revolution." — In 1834 Carlyle left the 
dreary farm of Craigenputtoch to live in London. His limited 
means enforced the strictest economy; but his modest home be- 
came a centre for the gathering of the best literary talent of 
the metropolis. The first years of his London residence, from 
1834 to 1837, he devoted to the " French Revolution," a sub- 
ject that had long occupied his attention. It is less a history 
than prose epic. In place of conventional details, it abounds in 
graphic pictures, tragic incidents, and tumultuous feeling. It 
lacks only metrical form to take rank with the " Iliad." Car- 
lyle was a preacher rather than artist. The " French Revolu- 
tion " was written to impress upon his age, which he believed 
to be full of shams, hypocrisies, and injustice, his great funda- 
mental principle that God governs this universe in justice, and 
that all wrong-doing will, sooner or later, be followed by re- 
tribution. 

The first volume, the manuscript of which had been acci- 
dentally destroyed while in the hands of John Stuart Mill, was 
rewritten with heroic spirit. " What they will do with this 
book," he said to his wife, " none knows, my lass ; but they have 
not had for two hundred years any book that came more truly 
from a man's very heart, and so let them trample it under foot 
and hoof as they see best." " They will not trample that," she 
answered cheerily, and she was right. While its unsparing in- 
dependence of spirit displeased various classes and parties, its 
unmistakable freshness and power were immediately recognized. 
It placed Carlyle's reputation as a writer upon a solid foun- 
dation. Dickens carried it with him in his travels ; Thackeray 
gave it an enthusiastic review; Southey read it no fewer than 
six times. 

531. Courses of Lectures. — But the " French Revolution," 
while adding immensely to his fame, did not at once replenish 
his purse. Through the kindly solicitation of some friends, 
among whom was Harriet Martineau, he was induced to de- 
liver a course of lectures. His reputation made it easy to 
secure a select and intelligent audience at a pound apiece. 
Without^the graces of an accomplished orator, his wide range 
of knowledge and rare command of language made him a 



2Q8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

speaker of impressive power. His voice was harsh ; his gestures 
were abrupt and angular; and worst of all, he had a habit of 
distorting his features as if suffering great physical pain. 

In all he delivered four courses of lectures, which brought 
him the comfortable sum of eight hundred pounds, and relieved 
his domestic needs. He delivered his last and best course in 
1840 on " Heroes and Hero- Worship." These lectures were 
shortly afterward published in book form, and make one of his 
most interesting volumes. Its underlying principle is the be- 
lief that all human progress is due to the small number of 
supremely gifted men, whom God sends into the world at 
favored epochs. 

532. " Past and Present." — His next notable work, " Past 
and Present," had a political aim. It was inspired by the dis- 
turbances of 1842 — a period of financial depression and social 
unrest. The odious Corn Laws had made bread dear ; and while 
the noble and the wealthy were living in ease and extravagance, 
thousands of workingmen, without employment, were on the 
point of starvation. The social condition of England in a 
measure exhibited the evils which had precipitated the French 
Revolution. Carlyle was filled with indignation and alarm. 
" We seem to me near the anarchies," he wrote to his wife. It 
was these circumstances that called forth the burning words 
of " Past and Present " — once more a mighty plea for truth, 
duty, justice. " Foolish men imagine," he exclaimed, " that be- 
cause judgment for an evil thing is delayed, there is no justice 
but an accidental one, here below. Judgment for an evil thing 
is many times delayed some day or two, some century or two, 
but it is sure as life, it is sure as death ! In the centre of the 
world-whirlwind, verily now as in the oldest days, dwells and 
speaks a God. The great soul of the world is just." It sold 
rapidly, and exerted no small influence, not only on the thought 
of the time, but also on subsequent legislation. 

533- " Cromwell's Letters and Speeches." — In 1845 ap- 
peared " Cromwell's Letters and Speeches," which had cost 
Carlyle five years of tedious and painful toil, and which is re- 
garded by Froude as the most important contribution to English 
history made in the century. To Carlyle the great Protector 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 299 

was a hero, whose sincerity and truth deserved to be held up as 
an impressive lesson in an age when " conviction and veracity 
were giving place to hollow cant and formulism." It perma- 
nently rescued the name of Cromwell from the obloquy which 
political and ecclesiastical conservatism had heaped upon it. 
" With his own right hand, alone and by a single stroke," says 
Frederic Harrison, " he completely reversed the judgment of 
the English nation about their greatest man. The whole weight 
of church, monarchy, aristocracy, fashion, literature, and wit 
had for two centuries combined to falsify history and distort the 
character of the noblest of English statesmen. And a simple 
man of letters, by one book, at once and forever reversed this 
sentence, silenced the allied forces of calumny and rancour, and 
placed Oliver for all future time as the greatest hero of the 
Protestant movement." 

534. " Frederick the Great." — Many interesting details of 
Carlyle's life at this period — his friendships with the noble and 
the great, his journeys at home and abroad, the eloquent ap- 
peals of his political pamphlets — ■ are necessarily passed over. 
He produced one more monumental work, " Frederick the 
Great." The most elaborate of all his works, it cost him thir- 
teen years of almost incredible toil. During this period he 
withdrew almost entirely from society, and, on the best au- 
thority, " made entire devastation of any satisfactory sem- 
blance of home life or home happiness." The first two volumes 
appeared in 1858, the third in 1862, the fourth in 1864, and the 
last in 1865. Of all his works this had the swiftest success, 
three editions being quickly exhausted. It was at once trans- 
lated into German, and in Germany it met with the warmest 
appreciation. Henceforth there was no one to challenge 
Carlyle's right to a place among the greatest of English writers. 

535. University Rector. — After a long struggle against 
poverty, indifference, neglect, depreciation, Carlyle finally 
achieved a permanent triumph. Even former opponents now 
recognized his worth. Scotland, which had long been indif- 
ferent or hostile to her gifted son, hastened to do him honor. 
In 1865 he was elected over Disraeli to succeed Gladstone as 
rector of Edinburgh University, and the following year he de- 



300 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

livered his Inaugural Address, which was enthusiastically re- 
ceived, not only by the students, but also by the people of 
Great Britain. As Tyndall telegraphed Mrs. Carlyle, who was 
specially solicitous about her husband's success, it was 
" a perfect triumph." But alas ! the satisfaction of it all was 
to be of short duration. Three weeks later, while Carlyle was 
still in Scotland, he received a telegram announcing the sudden 
death of his wife. He never recovered from the blow. 

536. Deepening Gloom. — The closing years of h : s life 
were like a clouded evening sky, which, with deepening gloom, 
shows now and then a momentary rift of sunshine. His be- 
reavement, at one fell stroke, stripped him of his Titanic 
strength. He undertook no other great work. Though he had 
the sustaining affection of admiring friends and disciples, he 
came to feel more and more, as death took away one after an- 
other of those who had been dear to him, that he was a lonely 
wanderer in the world. His one " expensive luxury was 
charity " ; for in spite of the sternness of his manner, and the 
harshness of some of his teaching, he had a kindly heart. 
The poor and helpless never appealed to him in vain. In the 
period of deep depression following the death of his wife, he 
wrote his " Reminiscences," a pathetic record of supreme af- 
fection and ineradicable remorse. What a depth of penitence 
is to be found in the following admonition, evidently based on 
the recognition of his own irremediable mistakes : " Cherish 
what is dearest while you have it near you, and wait not till 
it is far away. Blind and deaf that we are; oh, think, if thou 
yet love anybody living, wait not till death sweep down the 
paltry little dust clouds and dissonances of the moment, and 
all be at last so mournfully clear and beautiful, when it is too 
late ! " Though his physical strength gradually faded away, 
his mind retained its native vigor to the last. He died Feb. 
4, 188 1 ; and, as he had desired, his body was laid to rest in 
the rural churchyard at Ecclefechan. 

537. Love of Truth. — And now, what of the man and his 
message? That he had his weakness and limitations, has al- 
ready been made apparent; but that he was a "blatant im- 
postor " or a " shallow dogmatist," is what no unprejudiced 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 301 

mind will believe. The foundation of his character was a 
rugged honesty — an unselfish love of truth. Throughout his 
life, in spite of dyspeptic irritability and violence, he was a 
bold assailant of wrong and a fearless champion of truth and 
righteousness. With the courage of a Hebrew prophet, he 
resolutely put aside every selfish consideration in the faithful 
proclamation of his message. In all his writings he labored 
in the utmost sincerity. 

538. His Message. — In its essential features, Carlyle's was 
a great life. No other writer left a deeper impress on the 
Victorian Age. In spite of weaknesses and errors, the weight 
of his life was on the side of righteousness. As he quaintly 
wrote in one of his letters, " I've had but one thing to say from 
beginnin' to end o' my books, and that was, that there's no other 
reliance for this world or any other but just the Truth, and 
if men did not want to be damned to all eternity, they had best 
give up lyin' and all kinds o' falsehood ; that the world was far 
gone already through lyin', and that there's no hope for it, 
save just so far as men find out and believe the Truth, and 
match their lives to it." 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Froude, "Life of Carlyle," Nichol, "Life of Carlyle " (English 
Men of Letters), Garnett, "Life of Carlyle" (Great Writers 
Series), Carlyle, "Reminiscences," Mead, "The Philosophy of 
Carlyle," Harrison, " Early Victorian Literature." 

An analysis of Carlyle's style in the selection of Part II. His 
views of pedagogy, " Sartor Resartns," Bk. II, Ch. 3. Glimpses of 
an early romance, " Sartor Resartus," Bk. II, Ch. 5. The character 
of The Everlasting No, " Sartor," Bk. II, Ch. 7. The nature of 
The Everlasting Yea, " Sartor," Bk. II, Ch. 0. A study of the hero 
as poet, " Heroes and Hero- Worship," Lect. III. The hero as 
priest, " Hero-Worship," Lect. IV. The hero as a man of letters, 
" Hero-Worship," Lect. V. A summary of Carlyle's view of 
Burns, " Miscellaneous Essays." His estimate of Sir Walter Scott, 
ft Miscellaneous Essays." A synopsis of the " Inaugural Address." 



302 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Carlyle's views of Mammonism, " Past and Present," Bk. Ill, Ch. 2. 
What does he mean by the " gospel of dilettantism " ? " Past and 
Present," Bk. Ill, Ch. 3. What are his views of work? "Past 
and Present," Bk. Ill, Ch. 11. 

A chapter from "Past and Present" entitled Happy will be found 
among the selections of Part II. 




At the age of 70. Etched 



York, "London, andPa 




Vfkf 



VICTORIAN AGE. 303 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 

539. Pre-eminence. — For the greater part of the Victor- 
ian period Alfred Tennyson stood at the head of English poetry. 
His extraordinary poetic genius was supported by broad scholar- 
ship. He absorbed the deepest and best thought of his age; 
and instead of mere passing fancies, his poetry embodies a 
depth of thought and feeling that gives it inexhaustible rich- 
ness. Viewed from an artistic standpoint, his work is exquisite. 
He surpassed Pope in perfection of form; he equalled Words- 
worth in natural expression; he excelled both Scott and Byron 
in romantic narrative ; and he wrote the only great epic poem 
since the days of Milton. 

540. Consecration to His Art. — Few poets have been 
more fortunate than Tennyson. His life was one of easy com- 
petence. In the retirement of a cultivated home, and in a nar- 
row circle of congenial friends, he steadily pursued his voca- 
tion. Never did a poet consecrate himself more entirely to his 
art. He wrote no prose. He did not entangle himself in 
business, which has fettered many a brilliant genius. He en- 
cumbered himself with no public office, by which his poetic 
labors might have been broken. His career, like an English 
river, quietly flowed on among fertile hills and blooming 
meadows. 

" From his boyhood," his son tells us, " he had felt the 
magic of Merlin — that spirit of poetry — which bade him 
know his power and follow throughout his work a pure and 
high ideal, with a simple and single devotedness and a desire 
to ennoble the life of the world, and which helped him through 
doubts and difficulties to ' endure as seeing Him who is in- 
visible.' " In " Merlin and the Gleam/' the poet has given us 
his literary history. 

541. Youthful Period.— The principal events in the life 



304 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of Tennyson are the publication of his successive volumes. 
He was born at Somersby, in Lincolnshire, in 1809, the son of 
a clergyman, and the third of twelve children. It was a gifted 
family, which Leigh Hunt called " a nest of nightingales." 
After a careful training in the parsonage under his father, 
Alfred was sent, with two brothers, to Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge. His appearance was impressive, indicating at the same 
time strength and refinement. He was genial, joyous, and 
full of humor, though suffering at intervals from despondency. 
He was a diligent student, with a taste not only for the 
classics, but also for natural science. He took a lively in- 
terest in the political questions of the day, and, while opposed 
to radical or revolutionary measures, was an advocate of 
freedom. In " In Memoriam " there is a pleasing reminiscence 
of his college days, beginning: — 

" I passed beside the reverend walls 
In which of old I wore the gown ; 
I roved at random thro' the town; 
And saw the tumult of the halls; 

" And heard once more in College fanes 

The storm their high-built organs make, 
And thunder music, rolling, shake 
The prophets blazoned on the panes." 

The bent of his mind early showed itself; and in 1827, in 
connection with his brother Charles, he sent forth, as yet an 
undergraduate, a volume entitled " Poems, by Two Brothers." 
As in the case of Byron, this first volume gave no token of 
genius. The poetry was correct but unreadably dull. 

542. Opening of His Literary Career. — In 1829, in com- 
petition with Arthur Hallam, Tennyson won a medal with his 
prize poem on the subject of " Timbuctoo." This work con- 
tained some faint intimations of his latent powers. His literary 
career really opened in 1830 with a volume of " Poems, Chiefly 
Lyrical." With much that was faulty and immature — sup- 
pressed by the author in subsequent editions of his works — 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 305 

this volume announced the presence of a genuine poet. He did 
not, however, receive the recognition he deserved. Christopher 
North, in Blackwood's Magazine, mingled censure and praise 
— his censure being of the positive kind then in vogue. 

Among the pleasing lyrics in this volume are " Lilian," " Rec- 
ollections of the Arabian Nights," and especially " Mariana." 
In " The Poet " Tennyson lays down his conception of the 
poetic character. The poet is preeminently a seer, 'whose 
message of truth, flying over the earth, brings freedom and 
wisdom to men : — 

" The poet in a golden clime was born, 
With golden stars above ; 
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, 
The love of love. 

" He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, 
He saw thro' his own soul, 
The marvel of the everlasting will 
An open scroll." 

543. The Volume of 1832. — At this period the poet's 
muse' was very active. In 1832 appeared another volume, 
which exhibited more fully his poetic gifts and made a notable 
contribution to English verse. He easily took his place at the 
head of the younger race of singers. His lyrical power, his 
mastery of musical rhythm, his charm of felicitous expression, 
and his exquisite handling of form and color are everywhere 
apparent. His breadth of sympathy is shown by his successful 
treatment of ancient, mediaeval, and modern themes. The 
" May Queen," with its tender pathos, at once touched the 
popular heart. In " Lady Clara Vere de Vere " the nobility 
of character is presented in proud contrast with the nobility 
of birth: — 

"Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 
Tis only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
And simple faith than Norman blood." 



3 o6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

In " The Lotus Eaters," how exquisitely the sound is 
wedded to the sense : — ■ 

" In the afternoon they came unto a land, 
In which it always seemed afternoon. 
All around the coast the languid air did swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem." 

544. Blessedness of Love. — - This volume of 1832 intro- 
duces us to one of the fundamental elements of Tennyson's 
poetry. It is the blessedness of love in all its simple, every- 
day forms. He teaches us that the human heart was made for 
love; and whenever, for any reason, love is shut out of life, 
indescribable loneliness and sorrow are the inevitable result. 
This is the truth presented in " The Palace of Art," an alle- 
gory wrought out with exceeding care : — 

" And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be 
Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie 
Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 
Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, 
Moulded by God, and tempered with the tears 
Of angels to the perfect shape of man." 

The uplifting and sanctifying power of Love is beautifully 
expressed in the "Idyls of the King" : — 

" Indeed I know 

Of no more subtle master under heaven 
Than is the maiden passion for a maid, 
Not only to keep down the base in man. 
But teach high thought and amiable words, 
And courtliness and the desire of fame, 
And love of truth, and all that makes a man." 

545. Silence and Study. — For the next ten years Tenny- 
son published nothing except a few pieces in periodicals. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 307 

Perhaps he had been discouraged by the want of appreciation on 
the part of professional critics. But he was by no means 
driven from his art. This intervening period he devoted to 
diligent study, enlarging his intellectual range and perfecting 
himself in artistic expression. History, science, language, the- 
ology — all were assiduously pursued. He was a careful stu- 
dent of English poetry. He admired Wordsworth, whom he 
called " the dear old fellow." He had a strong appreciation of 
the elevation and power of Milton, and thought that " Lycidas " 
was " a test of any reader's poetic instinct." He believed that 
" Keats, with his high spiritual vision, would have been, if he 
had lived, the greatest of us all." Shakespeare's sonnets 
seemed to him scarcely inferior to his dramas. This long in- 
terim was one of congenial labor and happiness, and the future 
seemed full of promise : — 

" Hope, a poising eagle burnt 
Above the unrisen morrow." 

546. Visits to London. — From time to time he went to 
London, where he delighted in the " central roar." He loved to 
walk in the busiest streets, to look at the city from the bridges 
of the Thames, and to stroll into the Abbey and St. Paul's. 
He belonged to the Sterling Club, and among the prominent 
literary men he met were Carlyle, Rogers, Thackeray, Dickens, 
Leigh Hunt, Thomas Campbell. As at college he showed an 
eager interest in the scientific and economic questions of the 
day. His talk turned chiefly on politics, philosophy, and re- 
ligion. His face was turned to the future, — 

" Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would 
yield, 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field." 

547. A New Volume.— Tennyson ripened into maturity, 
and in 1842 appeared a new volume, in which are found many 
of his choicest pieces. He was no longer simply a master of 
delicate fancy and lyrical harmony; he had become also a 



308 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

thinker and teacher. Here appears his first work in connection 
with the legend of Arthur and the Round Table. Milton and 
Dryden had both thought of the Arthurian cycle as the subject 
of an epic poem. It was reserved for Tennyson to realize the 
idea; and so well has he done his work that we may con- 
gratulate ourselves that the older poets left the field unoccupied. 
Listen to the forceful beginning of the " Morte d' Arthur " : — 

" So all day long the noise of battle rolled 
Among the mountains by the winter sea." 

Where can we find a more graphic touch than the description 
of the flinging of Arthur's sword? — 

" The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea." 

" Dora " has the charm of a Hebrew idyl — a poem that can 
hardly be read without tears. " Locksley Hall," a story of dis- 
appointed love, is known to all, and many of its lines have passed 
into daily use : — ■ 

" Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, 
And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the 



" Godiva " is a story of heroic self-sacrifice, with many an 
exquisite passage. As the heroine returned to the palace, — 

" All at once, 
With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon 
Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hundred towers." 

Indeed, almost every poem deserves particular mention. 
548- Secret of its Charm. — This volume placed Tennyson 
in the forefront of English poets. What is the secret of his 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 309 

charm ? Apart from the exquisite finish of his poetry, in which, 
perhaps, he has never been excelled, his productions show the 
indefinable but manifest touch of genius. In thought, imagina- 
tion, and expression he soars far beyond the reach of common 
singers. But more that that : his poetry is the honest utter- 
ance of a sincere and noble nature. There is nothing factitious ; 
he gives faithful utterance to the truth and beauty he dis- 
covers in nature and human life. Unlike the productions of 
Browning, Tennyson's poetry is characterized by a chaste sim- 
plicity and clearness. In place of dealing with the violent and 
tragic passions of life, he confines himself within the boundaries 
of ordinary experience — the great primal affections and 
interests — • which he invests with the beauty or pathos of a 
highly gifted nature. It is these facts that have given him so 
strong a hold upon the popular heart. 

549. " The Princess." — In 1847 appeared the " Princess." 
The author called it " A Medley " ; and such it is, composed 
of mediaeval and modern elements. Half jest, and half earnest, 
it yet reaches a serious solution of the vexed problem of 
woman's education : — 

" For woman is not undeveloped man, 
But diverse ; could we make her as a man, 
Sweet love were slain : his dearest bond is this, 
Not like to like, but like in difference. 
Yet in the long years must they liker grow ; 
The man be more of woman, she of man ; 
He gain in sweetness and in moral height, 
Nor lose the wrestling threws that throw the world; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care, 
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind ; 
Till at the last she set herself to man, 
Like perfect music unto noble words." 

The romantic story is delightfully told; and the songs in- 
terspersed among the several parts are, perhaps, the finest in 
our language. Where can we match the " Bugle Song " ? — 

" The splendor falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story : 



310 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying." 

550. Conservative Sympathies. — The sympathies of Ten- 
nyson were largely conservative, especially as he grew older. 
The lawlessness of Shelley and Byron was intolerable to him. 
He indeed recognized the existing evils of society, but he looked 
for a remedy, not through any radical break with the established 
order of society, but in its gradual development into better 
things. Except the question of woman's place in the social 
order, he does not deal fully and progressively with any of 
the problems connected with the democratic movement of the 
age. He had no sympathy with the French Revolution, and 
Paris seemed to him — ■ 

" The red fool-fury of the Seine." 

He had no confidence in democracy in its present state of 
ignorance. " I do not the least mind," he said, " if England, 
when the people are less ignorant and more experienced in self- 
government, eventually becomes a democracy. But violent, sel- 
fish, unreasoning democracy would bring expensive bureaucracy 
and the iron rule of a Cromwell." 

551. "In Memoriam." — In 1850 appeared "In Memor- 
iam," the best elegiac poem ever written, and one that will 
perhaps never have a rival. It is written in memory of 
Arthur Hallam, a bosom friend of Tennyson's and a young 
man of rich gifts of mind and heart. A bright career seemed 
open to him ; but while travelling in Germany for his health, he 
suddenly died at Vienna, in 1833. The poet's heart was 
wrung with grief; and under the weight of bereavement, he 
set himself resolutely to a consideration of the great mysteries 
of life, death, God, providence, eternal life. He does not deal 
with these subjects like a theologian or philosopher; but rising 
above the plane of the understanding, he finds his answers in 
the cravings of the heart and the intuitions of the spirit. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 311 

552. Modern Thought. — No other poem is so rilled with 
the thought and feeling peculiar to our age. It rejects the se- 
ductive materialism of recent scientific thought; it is larger 
and less dogmatic than our creeds. With reverent heart the 
poet finds comfort at last in the " strong Son of God " : — 

" Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 

Thou madest man, he knows not why; 
He thinks he was not made to die; 
And thou hast made him: thou art just. 

" Thou seemest human and divine, 

The highest, holiest manhood, thou : 
Our wills are ours, we know not how ; 
Our wills are ours, to make them thine." 

553. Love of Nature. — Tennyson's love of nature, which 
was scarcely inferior to that of Wordsworth, was associated 
with the prevading presence of God. " Everywhere through- 
out the universe," to quote from his son's " Memoir," " he 
saw the glory and greatness of God, and the science of nature 
was particularly dear to him. Every new fact which came 
within his range was carefully weighed. As he exulted in the 
wilder aspects of nature and revelled in the thunderstorm, so 
he felt a joy in her orderliness; he felt a rest in her steadfast- 
ness, patient progress, and hopefulness." The human soul, 
which mysteriously comes from the universal being of God — 
draws " from out the boundless deep " — returns to Him in 
death, and thus becomes more intimately a part of nature. In 
this belief Tennyson sings of his departed friend in words of 
deep mystic beauty : — ■ 

" Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 

I hear thee where the waters run ; 
Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the setting thou art fair." 

554. "Maud, and Other Poems." — In 1855 appeared 
" Maud, and Other Poems." The principal poem in this volume 



312 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

has much divided critical opinion, but it is safe to say that it 
falls below his usual high achievement. The meaning of the 
poem, as explained by the poet himself, is the reclaiming power 
of love : " It is the story of a man who has a morbid nature, 
with a touch of inherited insanity, and very selfish. The poem 
is to show what loves does for him. The war is only an 
episode. You must remember that it is not I myself speaking. 
It is this man with the strain of madness in his blood, and 
the memory of a great, trouble and wrong that has put him out 
with the world." 1 

" The Brook " is a charming idyl, containing a delicious, 
rippling inter-lyric : — 

" I come from haunts of coot and hern, 
I make a sudden sally, 
And sparkle out among the fern, 
To bicker down a valley." 

555. " Idyls of the King." — Whatever doubts touching 
the poet's genius may have been started by " Maud," they were 
forever cleared away in 1859 by the appearance of the " Idyls 
of the King." These poems were received with enthusiasm. 
Consisting at first of only four — Enid, Vivien, Elaine, and 
Guinevere — the poet afterard wrought in the same field, until 
his ten idyls constitute a great epic poem. " Nave and tran- 
sept, aisle after aisle," to use the language of Stedman, " the 
Gothic minister has extended, until, with the addition of a clois- 
ter here and a chapel yonder, the structure stands complete." 
These " Idyls " belong to the mountain summits of song. Brave 
knights, lovely women, mediaeval splendor, undying devotion, 
and heart-breaking tragedies are all portrayed with the richest 
poetic art and feeling. Unlike the " Iliad " or " Paradise Lost," 
which appeal to us largely through their grandeur, the " Idyls 
of the King " possess a deep human interest, leaving no tender 
or heroic sentiment of our nature untouched. 

556. " Enoch Arden." — In 1864 appeared " Enoch Arden," 
a work of great beauty. It depicts with deep pathos the hero- 

1 Century Magazine, February, 1893. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 313 

ism to be found in humble life. Beauty, pathos, heroism — these 
are qualities that give it high rank, and have made it perhaps 
the most popular of all Tennyson's writings. Human nature 
is portrayed at its best; and like all our author's poetry, 
" Enoch Arden " unconsciously begets faith in man and makes 
us hopeful of the future of our race. 

557. The Closing Scene. — Of Tennyson's other works we 
cannot speak. It is enough to say that they add nothing to his 
fame. 

The quiet beauty of his death formed a fitting close to his 
long and uneventful career. On the evening of the 6th of 
October, 1892, the soul of the great poet passed away. The 
prayer he had breathed two years before in the little poem, 
" Crossing the Bar," was answered : — 

" Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar 
When I put out to sea. 

" But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 
Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 
Turns again home. 

" Twilight and evening bell, 
And after that the dark! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell 
When I embark. 

" For tho' from out our bourn of Time and Place 
The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
When I have crossed the bar." 

He was entombed by the side of Chaucer in Westminster 
Abbey, while two continents lamented his death. 

558. Enduring Fame. — Whatever changes of taste or 
fashion may hereafter come in poetry, surely we are justified in 



314 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

believing that Tennyson will continue to hold a high rank. His 
work is too true in thought, feeling, and execution to pass 
away. It will abide as a perpetual source of pleasure and 
strength. While tenderly sensitive to beauty, he possessed pro- 
found ethical feeling and spiritual insight. Keenly sympa- 
thetic with the restless search after truth characteristic of our 
time, he avoided its vagaries and dangers, and continued a 
trustworthy teacher, inspiring confidence in man, hope in the 
future, and faith in God. In the words of Longfellow's beauti- 
ful sonnet : — 

" Not of the howling dervishes of song, 

Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, 
Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart ! 
Therefore to thee the laurel leaves belong, 
To thee our love and our allegiance, 
For thy allegiance to the poet's art." 



FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY. 

Tennyson, " Alfred Lord Tennyson : a Memoir by his Son," 
Waugh, " Alfred Lord Tennyson," Jenning, " Lord Tennyson," 
Brooke, " Tennyson, His Art and Relation to Modern Life," Van 
Dyke, " Poetry of Tennyson," Horton, " Alfred Lord Tennyson," 
Stedman, " Victorian Poets." 

A study of Tennyson's diction in the selections of Part II. His 
treatment of nature in the same poems. A character study of 
Dora. The contrast between " The Lotos-Eaters " and " Ulysses." 
The story of " Godiva." A study of " A Dream of Fair Woman." 
What is the meaning of " The Palace of Art" ? A review of the 
ballad of " Edward Gray." The story of " Enoch Arden." A 
comparison of " Locksley Hall " and " Locksley Hall Sixty Years 
After." A collection of fine passages from " In Memoriam." The 
story of " Elaine." 

"Break, break, break," "The Bugle Song," "Tears, Idle Tears" 
"Dora," "Ulysses," and the " Morte D' Arthur" will be found 
among the selections of Part II. 



PART SECOND 



CONSISTING OF 



ANNOTATED SELECTIONS 



ILLUSTRATING 



THE SUCCESSIVE PERIODS AND PRINCIPAL AUTHORS 



ENGLISH LITERATURE 



SELECTION FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 

(500-1066.) 

THE BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. 

Athelstan King, 
Lord among Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower and 
Baron of Barons, 
He with his brother, 
Edmund Atheling, 
Gaining a lifelong 
Glory in battle, 
Slew with the sword-edge 
There by Brunanburh, 
Brake the shield-wall, 
Hewed the linden-wood, 
Hacked the battle-shield, 
Sons of Edward with hammered brands. 

Theirs was a greatness 
Got from their grandsires — - 
Theirs that so often in 
Strife with their enemies 
Struck for their hoards and their hearths and their homes. 

Bowed the spoiler, 
Bent the Scotsman, 
Fell the ship-crews, 
Doomed to the death. 
All the field with blood of the fighters 
Flowed, from when first the great 
Sun-star of morning-tide, 
Lamp of the Lord God, 
Lord everlasting, 
317 



318 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Glode over earth till the glorious creature 
Sank to his setting. 

There lay many a man 
Marred by the javelin, 
Men of the Northland 
Shot over shield. 
There was the Scotsman 
Weary of war. 

We the West-Saxons, 

Long as the daylight 

Lasted, in companies 
Troubled the track of the host that we hated: 
Grimly with swords that were sharp from the grind- 
stone, 
Fiercely we hacked at the flyers before us 

Mighty the Mercian, 
Hard was his hand-play, 
Sparing not any of 
Those that with Anlaf, 
Warriors over the 
Weltering waters 
Borne in the bark's-bosom, 
Drew to this island — 
Doomed to the death. 

Five young kings put asleep by the sword- stroke, 
Seven strong Earls of the army of Anlaf 
Fell on the war-field, numberless numbers, 
Shipmen and Scotsmen. 

Then the Norse leader, 

Dire was his need of it, 

Few were his following, 

Fled to his war-ship ; 
Fleeted his vessel to sea with the king in it, 
Saving his life on the fallow flood. 



BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. 319 

Also the crafty one, 

Constantinus, 

Crept to his North again, 

Hoar-headed hero ! 

Slender warrant had 

He to be proud of 

The welcome of war-knives — 

He that was reft of his 

Folk and his friends that had 

Fallen in conflict, 

Leaving 1 his son too 

Lost in the carnage, 

Mangled to morsels, 

A youngster in wari 

Slender reason had 

He to be glad of 

The clash of the war-glaive — 

Traitor and trickster 

And spurner of treaties — 

He nor had Anlaf 

With armies so broken 

A reason for bragging 

That they had the better 

In perils of battle 

On places of slaughter — 

The struggle of standards, 

The rush of the javelins, 

The crash of the charges, 

The wielding of weapons — 

The play that they played with 

The children of Edward. 

Then with their nailed prows 

Parted the Norsemen, a 

Blood-reddened relic of 

Javelins over 

The jarring breaker, the deep-sea billow, 

Shaping their way toward Dyflen x again, 

Shamed in their souls. 



320 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Also the brethren, 
King and Atheling, 
Each in his glory, 
Went to his own in his own West-Saxonland, 
Glad of the war. 

Many a carcase they left to be carrion, 
Many a livid one, many a sallow-skin — 
Left for the white-tailed eagle to tear it, and 
Left for the horny-nibbed raven to rend it, and 
Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to gorge it, and 
That gray beast, the wolf of the weald. 

Never had htiger 

Slaughter of heroes 

Slain by the sword-edge — 

Such as old writers 

Have writ of in histories — 

Hapt in this isle, since 

Up from the East hither 

Saxon and Angle from 

Over the broad billow 

Broke into Britain with 

Haughty war-workers who 

Harried the Welshmen, when 

Earls that were lured by the 

Hunger of glory gat 

Hold of the land. 



NOTES TO THE BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. 

This poem is given under the year 937 in the " Anglo-Saxon 
Chronicle." The site of Brunanburh is unknown. Athelstan, son 
of Edward and grandson of Alfred the Great, was King of the 
West-Saxons and Mercians, Lnd came to exercise sovereignty aver 
all England. He was succeeded by his brother Edmund in 940. 

Constantine " was king of the Scots. "After having sworn 
allegiance to Athelstan," says Tennyson, " he allied himself with 



NOTES ON BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH 321 

the Danes of Ireland under Anlaf, and invading England was 
defeated by Athelstan and his brother Edmund with great slaugh- 
ter at Brunanburh in the year 937.'' Anlaf was the son-in-law 
of Constantine. 

The translation here given is that of Alfred Tennyson. It 
admirably preserves the form and spirit of the original, and is 
at the same time rigidly literal. The original is given in Crow's 
" Maldon and Brunanburh." For the sake of comparison an inter- 
linear translation of the opening lines is here given : 

Her Athelstan cyning eorla drihten, 

Here Athelstan king, of earl's lord, 

beorna beahgifa and his brothor eac, 

of heroes bracelet-giver, and his brother eke, 

Eadmund aetheling ealdorlangne tir 

Edmund prince life long glory 

geslogan aet saecce sweorda ecgum 

gained in battle of swords with edges 
ymbe Brunnanburh. 
Around Brunanburh. 

It will be noticed that the short lines of the translation represent 
half lines of the Anglo-Saxon. Each half line has two accented 
syllables, the number of unaccented ones being indeterminate. The 
alliteration of the translation, which the student should carefully 
note, skilfully imitates the original. 

Let the student answer the following questions : 

Is the poem based on reflection or observation? What charac- 
teristics of Anglo-Saxon poetry does it exemplify? What lines 
show that the poet had an eye for natural grandeur? Also for 
color? To what class of poetry does the poem belong? What 
is its prevailing tone or spirit? 



SELECTION FROM THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 

(1066 — 1-400.) 

CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 

Whan that Aprille with his schowres swoote 

The drought of Marche hath perced to the roote, 

And bathed every veyne in swich licour, 

Of which vertue engendred is the flour ; 

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breethe 

Enspired hath in every holte and heethe 

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours i-ronne, 

And smale fowles maken melodie, 

That slepen al the night with open eye, 

So priketh hem nature in here corages : — 

Thanne longen folk to gon on pilgrimages, 

And palmers for to seeken straunge strondes, 

To feme halwes, kouthe in sondry londes : 

And specially, from every schires ende 

Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 

The holy blisful martir for to seeke, 

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. 

Byfel that, in that sesoun on a day, 
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 
- Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage 
.To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, 
At night was come into that hostelrie 
Wei nyne and twenty in a compainye, 
Of sondry folk, by aventure i-falle 
In felaweschipe, and pilgryms were thei alle, 
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde ; 
The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 
And wel we weren esed atte beste. 
And schortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 
So hadde I spoken with hem everychon, 
That I was of here felaweschipe anon, 
And made forward erly for to ryse, 
To take our wey ther as I yow devyse. 
322 



THE PROLOGUE. 323 

But natheles, whil I have tyme and space, 35 

Or that I forther in this tale pace, 

Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun, 

To telle yow al the condicioun 

Of eche of hem, so as it semede me, 

And whiche they weren, and of what degre; 4° 

And eek in what array that they were inne : 

And at a knight than wol I first bygynne. 

A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man, 
That from the tyme that he first bigan 

To ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye, 45 

Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie. 
Ful worthi was he in his lordes werre, 
And therto hadde he riden, noman ferre, 
As wel in Cristendom as in hethenesse, 

And evere honoured for his worthinesse. 5° 

At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne, 
Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bygonne 
Aboven alle naciouns in Pruce. 
In Lettowe hadde he reysed and in Ruce, 
No cristen man so ofte of his degre. 55 

In Gernade atte siege hadde he be 
Of Algesir, and riden in Belmarie. 
At Lieys was he, and at Satalie, 
Whan they were wonne ; and in the Greete see 
At many a noble arive hadde he be. 5o 

At mortal batailles hadde he ben fiftene, 
And foughten for oure feith at Tramassene 
In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo. 
This ilke worthi knight hadde ben also 

Somtyme with the lord of Palatye, 65 

Ageyn another hethen in Turkye : 
And everemore he hadde a sovereyn prys. 
And though that he was worthy, he was wys, 
And of his port as meke as is a mayde. 

He nevere yit no vileinye ne sayde 70 

In al his lyf, unto no maner wight. 
He was a verray perfight gentil knight. 



324 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

But for to tellen you of his array, 

His hors was good, but he ne was nought gay. 

Of fustyan he werede a gepoun 75 

Al bysmotered with his habergeoun. 

For he was late ycome from his viage, 

And wente for to doon his pilgrimage. 

With him ther was his sone, a yong Squyer, 
A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler, 80 

With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse. 
Of twenty yeer of age he was I gesse. 
Of his stature he was of evene lengthe, 
And wonderly delyvere, and gret of strengthe. 
And he hadde ben somtyme in chivachie, 85 

In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardie, 
And born him wel, as of so litel space, 
In hope to stonden in his lady grace. 
Embrowded was he, as it were a mede 

Al ful of fresshe floures, white and reede. 90 

Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day ; 
He was as fressh as is the moneth of May. 
Schort was his goune, with sleeves longe and wyde. 
Wel cowde he sitte on hors, and faire ryde. 
He cowde songes make, and wel endite, 95 

Juste and eek daunce, and wel purtreye and write. 
So hote he lovede, that by nightertale 
He sleep nomore than doth a nightyngale. 
Curteys he was, lowely, and servysable, 
And carf byforn his fader at the table. 100 

A Yeman hadde he and servauntz nomoo 
At that tyme, for him luste ryde soo ; 
And he was clad in coote and hood of grene. 
A shef of pocok arwes brighte and kene 

Under his belte he bar ful thriftily. 105 

Wel cowde he dresse his takel yemanly ; 
His arwes drowpede nought with fetheres lowe. 
And in his hond he bar a mighty bowe. 
A not-heed hadde he with a broun visage. 
Of woode-craft well cowde he al the usage. no 



THE PROLOGUE, 



325 



Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer, 

And by his side a swerd and bokeler, 

And on that other side a gay daggere, 

Harneysed wel, and scharp as poynt of spere ; 

A Cristofre on his brest of silver schene. n s 

An horn he bar, the bawdrik was of grene ; 

A forster was he sothly, as I gesse. 

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
That of hire smylyng was ful symple and coy ; 
Hire gretteste ooth ne was but by seynt Loy ; 120 

And sche was cleped madame Eglentyne. 
Ful wel sche sang the servise divyne, 
Entuned in hire nose ful semely ; 
And Frensch sche spak ful faire and fetysly, 
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, 125 

For Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe. 
At mete wel i-taught was sche withalle ; 
Sche leet no morsel from hire lippes falle, 
Ne wette hire fyngres in hire sauce deepe. 

Wel cowde sche carie a morsel, and wel keepe, 130 

That no drope ne fille uppon hire breste. 
In curteisie was set ful moche hire leste. 
Hire overlippe wypede sche so clene, 
That in hire cuppe was no ferthing sene 

Of greece, whan sche dronken hadde hire draughte. 135 

Ful semely after hire mete sche raughte, 
And sikerly sche was of gret disport, 
And ful plesaunt, and amyable of port, 
And peynede hire to countrefete cheere 

Of court, and ben estatlich of manere, 140 

And to ben holden digne of reverence. 
But for to speken of hire conscience, 
Sche was so charitable and so pitous, 
Sche wolde weepe if that sche sawe a mous 

Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 145 

Of smale houndes hadde sche, that she fedde - 
With rosted flessh, or mylk and wastel breed. 
But sore wepte sche if oon of hem were deed, 



326 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Or if men smot it with a yerde smerte : 

And al was conscience and tendre herte. 150 

Ful semely hire wympel i-pynched was ; 

Hire nose tretys ; hire eyen greye as glas ; 

Hire mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed; 

But sikerly sche hadde a fair forheed. 

It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe ; 155 

For hardily sche was not undergrowe. 

Ful fetys was hire cloke, as I was waar. 

Of smal coral aboute hire arm sche baar 

A peire of bedes gauded al with grene ; 

And theron heng a broch of gold ful schene, 160 

On which was first i-write a crowned A, 

And after Amor vincit omnia. 

Another Nonne with hire hadde sche, 

That was hire chapeleyne, and Prestes thre. 

A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrie, 165 

An out-rydere, that lovede venerye ; 
A manly man, to ben an abbot able. 
Ful many a deynte hors hadde he in stable : 
And whan he rood, men mighte his bridel heere 
Gynglen in a whistlyng wynd as cleere, 17° 

And eek as lowde as doth the chapel belle. 
Ther as this lord was kepere of the selle, 
The reule of seynt Maure or of seint Beneyt, 
Bycause that it was old and somdel streyt, 
This ilke monk leet olde thinges pace, 175 

And held after the newe world the space. 
He gaf not of that text a pulled hen, 
That seith, that hunters been noon holy men ; 
Ne that a monk, whan he is reccheles 

Is likned to a fissch that is waterles ; 180 

This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre. 
But thilke text held he not worth an oystre. 
And I seide his opinioun was good. 
What schulde he studie, and make himselven wood, 
Uppon a book in cloystre alway to powre, 185 

Or swynke with his handes, and laboure, 



THE PROLOGUE. 327 

As Austyn byt ? How schal the world be served ? 

Lat Austyn have his swynk to him reserved. 

Therfore he was a pricasour aright ; 

Greyhoundes he hadde as swifte as fowel in flight ; 190 

Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare 

Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 

I saugh his sieves purfiled atte honde 

With grys, and that the fyneste of a londe. 

And for to festne his hood under his chynne 195 

He hadde of gold y-wrought a curious pynne : 

A love-knotte in the grettere ende ther was. 

His heed was balled, that schon as eny glas, 

And eek his face as he hadde ben anoynt. 

He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt ; 200 

His eyen steepe, and rollyng in his heede, 

That stemede as a forneys of a leede ; 

His bootes souple, his hors in gret estate. 

Now certeinly he was a fair prelate ; 

He was not pale as a for-pyned goost. 205 

A fat swan lovede he best of eny roost. 

His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. 

A Frere ther was, a wantown and a merye, 
A lymytour, a ful solempne man. 

In alle the ordres foure is noon that can 210 

So moche of daliaunce and fair langage. 
He hadde i-mad ful many a mariage 
Of yonge wymmen, at his owne cost. 
Unto his ordre he was a noble post. 

Ful wel biloved and famulier was he 2I ^ 

With frankeleyns over-al in his cuntre, 
And eek with worthi wommen of the toun : 
For he hadde power of confessioun, 
As seyde himself, more than a curat, 

For of his ordre he was licentiat. 220 

Ful sweetely herde he confessioun, 
And plesaunt was his absolucioun ; 
He was an esy man to geve penaunce 
Ther as he wiste han a good pitaunce ; 



32R ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

For unto a poure ordre for to give 225 

Is signe that a man is wel i-schrive. 

For if he gaf, he dorste make avaunt, 

He wiste that a man was repentaunt. 

For many a man so hard is of his herte, 

He may not wepe although him sore smerte. 230 

Therfore in stede of wepyng and preyeres, 

Men moot give silver to the poure freres. 

His typet was ay farsed ful of knyfes 

And pynnes, for to give faire wyfes. 

And certeynli he hadde a mery noote ; 235 

Wel couthe he synge and pleyen on a rote. 

Of yeddynges he bar utterly the prys. 

His nekke whit was as the flour-de-lys. 

Therto he strong was as a champioun. 

He knew the tavernes wel in every toun, 240 

And everych hostiler and tappestere, 

Bet then a lazer, or a beggestere, 

For unto swich a worthi man as he 

Acordede not, as by his faculte, 

To han with sike lazars aqueyntaunce. 245 

It is not honest, it may not avaunce, 

For to delen with no swich a poraille, 

But al with riche and sellers of vitaille. 

And overal, ther as profyt schulde arise, 

Curteys he was, and lowely of servyse. 250 

Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous. 

He was the beste beggere in his hous, 

For though a widewe hadde noght 00 schoo, 

So plesaunt was his in ftrinciftio, 

Yet wolde he have a ferthing or he wente. 255 

His purchas was wel bettre than his rente. 

And rage he couthe as it were right a whelpe, 

In love-dayes couthe he mochel helpe. 

For ther he was not lik a cloysterer, 

With thredbare cope as is a poure scoler, 260 

But he was lik a maister or a pope. 

Of double worstede was his semy-cope, 



THE PROLOGUE. 329 

That rounded as a belle out of the presse. 

Somwhat he lipsede, for his wantownesse, 

To make his Englissch swete upon his tunge ; 265 

And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde sunge, 

His eyghen twynkled in his heed aright, 

As don the sterres in the frosty night. 

This worthi lymytour was cleped Huberd. 

A Marchaunt was ther with a forked berd, 270 

In motteleye, and high on horse he sat, 
Uppon his heed a Flaundrisch bevere hat ; 
His botes elapsed faire and fetysly. 
His resons he spak ful solempnely, 

Sownynge alway thencres of his wynnynge. 275 

He wolde the see were kept for eny thinge 
Betwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle. 
Wei couthe he in eschaunge scheeldes selle. 
This worthi man ful wel his wit bisette ; 

Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 280 

So estatly was he of governaunce, 
With his bargayns, and with his chevysaunce. 
For sothe he was a worthi man withalle, 
But soth to sayn, I not how men him calle. 

A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also, 285 

That unto logik hadde longe i-go. 
As lene was his hors as is a rake, 
And he was not right fat, I undertake ; 
But lokede holwe, and therto soberly. 

Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy, 290 

For he hadde geten him yit no benefice, 
Ne was so worldly for to have office. 
For him was levere have at his beddes heede 
Twenty bookes, i-clad in blak or reede, 

Of Aristotle and his philosophic, 295 

Then robes riche, or fithele, or gay sawtrie. 
But al be that he was a philosophre, 
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre ; 
But al that he mighte of his frendes hente, 
On bookes and on lernyng he it spente, 3 00 



330 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And busily gan for the soules preye 

Of hem that gaf him wherwith to scoleye. 

Of studie took he most cure and most heede. 

Not oo word spak he more than was neede, 

And that was seid in forme and reverence 305 

And schort and quyk, and ful of heye sentence. 

Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche, 

And gladly wold he lerne, and gladly teche. 

A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys, 
That often hadde ben atte parvys, 310 

Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 
Discret he was, and of gret reverence : 
He semede such, his wordes weren so wise, 
Justice he was ful often in assise, 

By patente, and by pleyn commissioun; 315 

For his science, and for his heih renoun, 
Of fees and robes hadde he many oon. 
So gret a purchasour was nowher noon. 
Al was fee symple to him in effecte, 

His purchasyng mighte nought ben enfecte. 320 

Nowher so besy a man as he ther nas, 
And yit he seemede besier than he was. 
In termes hadde he caas and domes alle, 
That fro the tyme of Kyng William were falle. 
Therto he couthe endite, and make a thing, 325 

Ther couthe no wight pynche at his writyng ; 
And every statute couthe he pleyn by roote. 
He rood but hoomly in a medle coote, 
Gird with a seynt of silk, with barres smale ; 
Of his array telle I no lenger tale. 33c 

A Frankeleyn was in his compainye ; 
Whit was his berde, as is the dayesye. 
Of his complexioun he was sangwyn. 
Wei lovede he by the morwe a sop in wyn. 
To lyven in delite was al his wone, 335 

For he was Epicurus owne sone, 
That heeld opynyoun that pleyn delyt 
Was verraily felicite perfyt 



THE PROLOGUE. 331 

An houshaldere, and that a gret, was he ; 

Seynt Julian he was in his countre. 340 

His breed, his ale, was alway after oon ; 

A bettre envyned man was nowher noon. 

Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous, 

Of flessch and fissch, and that so plenteuous, 

Hit snewede in his hous of mete and drynke, 345 

Of alle deyntees that men cowde thynke. 

After the sondry sesouns of the yeer, 

So chaungede he his mete and his soper. 

Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe, 

And many a brem and many a luce in stewe. 35° 

Woo was his cook, but-if his sauce were 

Poynaunt and scharp, and redy al his gere. 

His table dormant in his halle alway 

Stood redy covered al the longe day. 

At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire. 355 

Ful ofte tyme he was knight of the schire. 

An anlas and a gipser al of silk 

Heng at his girdel, whit as morne mylk. 

A schirreve hadde he ben, and a countour ; 

Was nowher such a worthi vavasour. 360 

An Haberdasshere and a Carpenter, 
A Webbe, a Deyere, and a Tapicer, 
And they were clothed alle in 00 lyvere, 
Of a solempne and a gret fraternite. 

Ful fressh and newe here gere apiked was ; 365 

Here knyfes were i-chaped nat with bras, 
But al with silver wrought ful clene and wel, 
Here gurdles and here pouches every del. 
Wel semede ech of hem a fair burgeys, 

To sitten in a geldehalle on a deys. 37° 

Everych for the wisdom that he can, 
Was schaply for to ben an alderman. 
For catel hadde they inough and rente, 
And eek here wyfes wolde it wel assente ; 
And elles certeyn were thei to blame. 375 

It is ful fair to ben yclept Madame, 



332 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And to gon to vigilies ai byfore, 
And han a mantel riallyche i-bore. 

A Cook thei hadde with hem for the nones, 
To boylle chyknes with the mary bones, 380 

And poudre-marchaunt tart, and galyngale. 
Wei cowd'e he knowe a draughte of Londone ale. 
He cowde roste, and seihe, and broille, and frie, 
Maken mortreux, and wel bake a pye. 

But gret harm was it, as it thoughte me, 3 8 5 

That on his schyne a mormal hadde he, 
For blankmanger that made he with the beste. 

A Schipman was ther, wonyng fer by weste : 
For ought I woot, he was of Dertemouthe. 
He rood upon a rouncy, as he couthe, 390 

In a gowne of faldyng to the kne. 
A daggere hangyng on a laas hadde he 
Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun. 
The hoote somer hadde maad his hew al broun; 
And certeinly he was a good felawe. 395 

Ful many a draughte of wyn hadde he ydrawe 
From Burdeux-ward, whil that the chapman sleep. 
Of nyce conscience took he no keep. 
If that he faughte, and hadde the heigher hand, 
By water he sente hem hoom to every land. 400 

But of his craft to rekne wel his tydes, 
His stremes and his daungers him bisides, 
His herbergh and his mone, his lodemenage, 
Ther was non such from Hulle to Cartage. 
Hardy he was, and wys to undertake ; 405 

With many a tempest hadde his berd ben schake. 
He knew wel alle the havenes, as thei were, 
From Gootlond to the cape of Fynystere, 
And every cryke in Bretayne and in Spayne ; 
His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 410 

With us ther was a Doctour of Phisik, 
In al this world ne was ther non him lyk 
To speke of phisik and of surgerye ; 
For he was grounded in astronomye. 



THE PROLOGUE. 333 

He kepte his pacient wonderly wel 4 J 5 

In houres by his magik naturel. 

Wel cowde he fortunen the ascendent 

Of his ymages for his pacient. 

He knew the cause of every maladye, 

Were it of hoot or cold, or moyste, or drye, 4 20 

And where engendred, and of what humour ; 

He was a verrey parfight practisour. 

The cause i-knowe, and of his harm the roote, 

Anori he gaf the syke man his boote. 

Ful redy hadde he his apotecaries, 4 2 5 

To sende him dragges, and his letuaries, 

For ech of hem made other for to wynne ; 

Here frendschipe nas not newe to begynne. 

Wel knew he the olde Esculapius, 

And Deiscorides, and eek Rufus ; 43° 

Old Ypocras, Haly, and Galien ; 

Serapyon, Razis, and Avycen; 

Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn ; 

Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn. 

Of his diete mesurable was he, 435 

For it was of no superfluity, 

But of gret norisching and digestible. 

His studie was but litel on the Bible. 

In sangwin and in pers he clad was al, 

Lined with taffata and with sendal. 44° 

And yit he was but esy of dispence ; 

He kepte that he wan in pestilence. 

For gold in phisik is a cordial, 

Therfore he lovede gold in special. 

A good Wif was ther of byside Bathe, 445 

But sche was somdel deef, and that was skathe. 
Of cloth-makyng she hadde such an haunt, 
Sche passede hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. 
In al the parisshe wyf ne was ther noon 

That to the offryng byforn hire schulde goon, 45° 

And if ther dide certeyn so wroth was sche, 
That sche was out of alle charite. 



334 ENGLISH LITER A TURE. 

Hire keverchefs ful fyne weren of grounde ; 

I durste swere they weygheden ten poimde 

That on a Sonday were upon hire heed. 455 

Hire hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, 

Ful streyte y-teyd, and schoos ful moyste and newe. 

Bold was hire face, and fair, and reed of hewe. 

Sche was a worthy womman al hire lyfe, 

Housbondes at chirche dore sche hadde fyfe, 46c 

Withouten other compainye in youthe ; 

But therof needeth nought to speke as nouthe. 

And thries hadde sche ben at Jerusalem ; 

Sche hadde passed many a straunge streem ; 

At Rome sche hadde ben, and at Boloyne, 465 

In Galice at seynt Jame, and at Coloyne. 

Sche cowde moche of wandryng by the weye. 

Gat-tothed was sche, sothly for to seye. 

Uppon an amblere esily sche sat, 

Ywympled wel, and on hire heed an hat 47° 

As brood as is a bokeler or a targe ; 

A foot-mantel aboute hire hipes large, 

And on hire feet a paire of spores scharpe. 

In felaweschipe wel cowde sche lawghe and carpe. 

Of remedyes of love sche knew parchaunce, 475 

For of that art sche couthe the olde daunce. 

A good man was ther of religioun, 
And was a poure Persoun of a toun ; 
But riche he was of holy thought and werk. 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk 4 C " 

That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche ; 
His parischens devoutly wolde he teche. 
Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, 
And in adversite ful pacient ; 

And such he was i-proved ofte sithes. 485 

Ful loth were him to curse for his tythes, 
But rather wolde he geven out of dowte, 
Unto his poure parisschens aboute, 
Of his offrynge, and eek of his substaunce. 
He cowde in litel thing han suffisaunce. 49° 



THE PROLOGUE. 335 

Wyd was his parische, and houses fer asonder, 

But he ne lafte not for reyne ne thonder, 

In siknesse nor in meschief to visite 

The ferreste in his parissche, moche and lite, 

Uppon his feet, and in his hond a staf. 495 

This noble ensample to his scheep he gaf, 

That first he wroughte, and afterward he taughte, 

Out of the gospel he the wordes caughte, 

And this figure he addede eek therto, 

That if gold ruste, what schal yren doo ? 500 

For if a prest be foul, on whom we truste, 

No wonder is a lewed man to ruste ; 

And schame it is, if that a prest take kepe, 

A [foule] schepherde and a clene schepe ; 

Wei oughte a prest ensample for to give, 505 

By his clennesse, how that his scheep schulde lyve. 

He sette not his benefice to hyre, 

And leet his scheep encombred in the myre, 

And ran to Londone, unto seynte Poules, 

To seeken him a chaunterie for soules, 510 

Or with a bretherhede to ben withholde ; 

But dwelte at hoom, and kepte wel his folde, 

So that the wolf ne made it not myscarye ; 

He was a schepherde and no mercenarie. 

And though he holy were, and vertuous, 515 

He was to sinful man nought despitous, 

Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne, 

But in his teching discret and benigne. 

To drawe folk to heven by fairnesse, 

By good ensample, this was his busynesse : 520 

But it were eny persone obstinat, 

What so he were, of high or lowe estat, 

Him wolde he snybbe scharply for the nones. 

A bettre preest, I trowe, ther nowher non is. 

He waytede after no pompe and reverence, 525 

Ne makede him a spiced conscience, 

But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, 

He taughte, but first he folwede it himselve. 



33$ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

With him ther was a Ploughman, was his brother, 
That hadde i-lad of dong ful many a fother, 530 

A trewe swynkere and a good was he, 
Lyvynge in pees and perfight charitee. 
God lovede he best with al his hoole herte 
At alle tymes, though him gamede or smerte, 
And thanne his neighebour right as himselve. 53.^ 

He wolde thresshe, and therto dyke and delve, 
For Cristes sake, with every poure wight, 
Withouten hyre, if it laye in his might. 
His tythes payede he ful faire and wel, 

Bothe of his owne swynk and his catel. 54° 

In a tabard he rood upon a mere. 

Ther was also a Reeve and a Mellere, 
A Sompnour and a Pardoner also, 
A Maunciple, and my self, ther were no mo. 

The Mellere was a stout carl for the nones, 545 

Ful big he was of braun, and eek of boones ; 
That prevede wel, for overal ther he cam, 
At wrastlynge he wolde have alwey the ram. 
He was schort schuldred, brood, a thikke knarre, 
Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of harre, 550 

Or breke it at a rennyng with his heed. 
His berd as ony sowe or fox was reed, 
And therto brood, as though it were a spade. 
Upon the cop right of his nose he hade 

A werte, and theron stood a tuft of heres, 555 

Reede as the berstles of a sowes eeres. 
His nose-thurles blake were and wyde. 
A swerd and bokeler baar he by his side, 
His mouth as wyde was as a gret forneys. 
He was a janglere and a golyardeys, 560 

And that was most of synne and harlotries. 
Wel cowde he stele corn, and tollen thries ; 
Arid yet he hadde a thombe of gold parde. 
A whit cote and a blew hood werede he. 

A baggepipe wel cowde he blowe and sowne, 565 

And therwithal he broughte us out of towne. 



THE PROLOGUE. 



337 



A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple, 
Of which achatours mighten take exemple 
For to be wyse in beyying of vitaille. 

For whether that he payde, or took by taille, 57° 

Algate he waytede so in his achate, 
That he was ay biforn and in good state. 
Now is not that of God a ful fair grace, 
That such a lewed mannes wit schal pace 
The wisdom of an heep of lernede men ? 575 

Of maystres hadde he moo than thries ten, 
That were of lawe expert and curious ; 
Of which ther were a doseyne in that house, 
Worthi to ben stiwardes of rente and lond 
Of any lord that is in Engelond, 580 

To make him lyve by his propre good, 
In honour detteles, but-if he were wood, 
Or lyve as scarsly as hym list desire ; 
And able for to helpen al a schire 

In any caas that mighte falle or happe ; 5 8 5 

And yit this maunciple sette here aller cappe. 

The Reeve was a sklendre colerik man, 
His berd was schave as neigh as evere he can. 
His heer was by his eres ful round i-shorn. 
His top was docked lyk a preest biforn. 59° 

Ful longe wern his legges, and ful lene, 
Y-lik a staf, ther was no calf y-sene. 
Wei cowde he kepe a gerner and a bynne : 
Ther was non auditour cowde on him wynne. 
Wei wiste he by the droughte, and by the reyn, 595 

The yeeldyng of his seed, and of his greyn. 
His lordes scheep, his neet, his dayerie, 
His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultrie, 
Was holly in this reeves governynge, 

And by his covenaunt gaf the rekenynge, 600 

Syn that his lord was twenti yeer of age ; 
Ther couthe no man bringe him in arrerage. 
Ther nas baillif, ne herde, ne other hyne, 
That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyne ; 



33& ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

They were adrad of him, as of the dethe. 605 

His wonyng was ful fair upon an hethe, 

With grene trees i-schadwed was his place. 

He cowde bettre than his lord purchace. 

Ful riche he was astored prively, 

His lord wel couthe he plese subtilly, 610 

To geve and lene him of his owne good, 

And have a thank, and yet a cote, and hood. 

In youthe he lerned hadde a good mester ; 

He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter. 

This reeve sat upon a ful good stot, 615 

That was al pomely gray, and highte Scot. 

A long surcote of pers uppon he hade, 

And by his side he bar a rusty blade. 

Of Northfolk was this reeve of which I telle, 

Byside a toun men clepen Baldeswelle. 620 

Tukked he was, as is a frere, aboute, 

And evere he rood the hyndreste of the route. 

A Sompnour was ther with us in that place, 
That hadde a fyr-reed cherubynes face, 

For sawceflem he was, with eyghen narwe. 625 

And [quyk] he was, and [chirped], as a sparwe, 
With skalled browes blake, and piled berd ; 
Of his visage children weren aferd. 
Ther nas quyksilver, litarge, ne bremstoon, 
Boras, ceruce, ne oille of tartre noon, 630 

Ne oynement that wolde dense and byte, 
That him mighte helpen of his whelkes white, 
Ne of the knobbes sittyng on his cheekes. 
Wel lovede he garleek, onyouns, and ek leekes, 
And for to drinke strong wyn reed as blood. 635 

Thanne wolde he speke, and crye as he were wood. 
And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn, 
Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn. 
A fewe termes hadde he, tuo or thre, 

That he hadde lerned out of som decree ; 640 

No wonder is, he herde it al the day ; 
And eek ye knowen wel, how that a jay 



THE PROLOGUE. 339 

Can clepen Watte, as wel as can the pope. 

But who so wolde in other thing him grope, 

Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophie, 645 

Ay, Questio quid juris, wolde he crye. 

He was a gentil harlot and a kynde ; 

A bettre felawe schulde men noght fynde. 

He wolde suffre for a quart of wyn 

A good felawe to have his concubyn 650 

A twelf moneth, and excuse him atte fulle : 

And prively a fynch eek cowde he pulle. 

And if he fond owner a good felawe, 

He wolde techen him to han non awe 

In such caas of the archedeknes curs, 655 

But-if a mannes soule were in his purs ; 

For in his purs he scholde y-punyssched be. 

" Purs is the erchedeknes helle," quod he. 

But well I woot he lyede right in dede ; 

Of cursyng oghte ech gulty man him drede ; 660 

For curse wol slee right as assoillyng saveth ; 

And also war him of a significavit. 

In daunger hadde he at his owne gise 

The yonge gurles of the diocise, 

And knew here counseil, and was al here reed. 665 

A garland hadde he set upon his heed, 

As gret as it were for an ale-stake ; 

A bokeler hadde he maad him of a cake. 

With him ther rood a gentil Pardoner 
Of Rouncivale, his frend and his comper, 670 

That streyt was comen from the court of Rome. 
Ful lowde he sange, ' Com hider, love, to me.' 
This sompnour bar to him a stif burdoun, 
Was nevere trompe of half so gret a soun, 
This pardoner hadde heer as yelwe as wex, 675 

But smothe it heng, as doth a strike of flex ; 
By unces hynge his lokkes that he hadde, 
And therwith he his schuldres overspradde. 
Ful thinne it lay, by culpons on and oon, 
But hood, for jolitee, ne werede he noon, 680 



340 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

For it was trussed up in his walet. 

Him thoughte he rood al of the newe get, 

Dischevele, sauf his cappe, he rood al bare. 

Suche glaryng eyghen hadde he as an hare. 

A vernicle hadde he sowed upon his cappe. 685 

His walet lay byforn him in his lappe, 

Bret-ful of pardoun come from Rome al hoot. 

A voys he hadde as smal as eny goot. 

No berd hadde he, ne nevere scholde have, 

As smothe it was as it were late i-schave ; ^9° 

I trowe he were a geldyng or a mere. 

But of his craft, fro Berwyk into Ware, 

Ne was ther such another pardoner. 

For in his male he hadde a pilwebeer, 

Which that, he seide, was oure lady veyl : 695 

He seide, he hadde a gobet of the seyl 

That seynt Peter hadde, whan that he wente 

Uppon the see, til Jhesu Crist him hente. 

He hadde a croys of latoun ful of stones, 

And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 700 

But with these reliques, whan that he fond 

A poure persoun dwellyng uppon lond, 

Upon a day he gat him more moneye 

Than that the persoun gat in monthes tweye. 

And thus with feyned flaterie and japes, 7°5 

He made the persoun and the people his apes. 

But trewely to tellen atte laste, 

He was in churche a noble ecclesiaste. 

Wei cowde he rede a lessoun or a storye, 

But altherbest he sang an offertorie ; 7 10 

For wel he wyste, whan that song was songe, 

He moste preche, and wel affyle his tonge, 

To wynne silver, as he right wel cowde ; 

Therefore he sang ful meriely and lowde. 

Now have I told you schortly in a clause 7*5 

Thestat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the cause 
Why that assembled was this compainye 
In Southwerk at this gentil hostelrie, 



THE PROLOGUE. 341 

That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle. 

But now is tyme to yow for to telle 7 20 

How that we bare us in that ilke night, 

Whan we were in that hostelrie alight ; 

And after wol I telle of oure viage, 

And al the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage. 

But first I pray you of your curteisie, 725 

That ye ne rette it nat my vileinye, 

Though that I pleynly speke in this matere, 

To telle you here wordes and here cheere ; 

Ne though I speke here wordes proprely. 

For this ye knowen also wel as I, 730 

Whoso schal telle a tale after a man, 

He moot reherce, as neigh as evere he can, 

Everych word, if it be in his charge, 

Al speke he nevere so rudelyche and large ; 

Or elles he moot telle his tale untrewe, 735 

Or feyne thing, or fynde wordes newe. 

He may not spare, although he were his brother ; 

He moot as wel seyn 00 word as another. 

Crist spak himself ful broode in holy writ, 

And wel ye woote no vileinye is it. 74° 

Eek Plato seith, whoso that can him rede, 

The wordes mote be cosyn to the dede. 

Also I praye you to forgeve it me, 

Al have I nat set folk in here degre 

Here in this tale, as that thei schulde stonde ; 745 

My wit is schort, ye may wel understonde. 

Greet cheere made oure host us everchon, 
And to the souper sette he us anon ; 
And servede us with vitaille atte beste. 

Strong was the wyn, and wel to drynke us leste. 75° 

A semely man oure hoost he was withalle 
For to han been a marschal in an halle ; 
A large man he was with eyghen stepe, 
A fairer burgeys was ther noon in Chepe : 
Bold of his speche, and wys and wel i-taught, 7S\ 

And of manhede him lakkede right naught. 



342 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Eek therto he was right a mery man, 

And after soper playen he bygan, 

And spak of myrthe amonges othre thinges, 

Whan that we hadde maad our rekenynges ; 760 

And sayde thus : " Lo, lordynges, trewely 

Ye ben to me right welcome hertely : 

For by my trouthe, if that I schal not lye, 

I saugh nought this yeer so mery a companye 

At oones in this herbergh as is now. 765 

Fayn wolde I don yow mirthe, wiste I how. 

And of a mirthe I am right now bythought, 

To doon you eese, and it schal coste nought. 

Ye goon to Caunterbury ; God you speede, 

The blisful martir quyte you youre meede ! no 

And wel I woot, as ye gon by the weye, 

Ye schapen yow to talen and to pleye ; 

For trewely confort ne mirthe is noon 

To ryde by the weye domb as a stoon ; 

And therfore wol I maken you disport, 775 

As I seyde erst, and don you som confort. 

And if yow liketh alle by oon assent 

Now for to standen at my juggement, 

And for to werken as I schal you seye, 

To morwe, whan ye riden by the weye, 7S0 

Now by my fader soule that is deed, 

But ye be merye, I wol geve myn heed. 

Hold up youre hond withoute more speche." 

Oure counseil was not longe for to seche ; 

Us thoughte it nas nat worth to make it wys, 7S5 

And grauntede him withoute more avys, 

And bad him seie his verdite, as him leste. 

" Lordynges," quoth he, " now herkneth for the beste; 

But taketh it not, I praye you, in desdeyn ; 

This is the poynt, to speken schort and pleyn, 79° 

That ech of yow to schorte with oure weie, 

In this viage, schal telle tales tweye, 

To Caunterburi-ward, I mene it so, 

And hom-ward he schal tellen othere tuo, 



THE PROLOGUE. 343 

Of aventures that whilom han bifalle. 795 

And which of yow that bereth him best of alle, 

That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas 

Tales of best sentence and most solas, 

Schal han a soper at oure alther cost 

Here in this place sittynge by this post, 800 

Whan that we come ageyn from Caunterbury. 

And for to maken you the more mery, 

I wol myselven gladly with you ryde, 

Right at myn owen cost, and be youre gyde. 

And whoso wole my juggement withseie 805 

Schal paye al that we spenden by the weye. 

And if ye vouchesauf that it be so, 

Telle me anoon, withouten wordes moo, 

And I wole erely schape me therfore." 

This thing was graunted, and oure othes swore 810 

With ful glad herte, and prayden him also 

That he wold vouchesauf for to doon so, 

And that he wolde ben oure governour, 

And of oure tales jugge and reportour, 

And sette a souper at a certeyn prys ; 815 

And we wolde rewled ben at his devys, 

In heygh and lowe ; and thus by oon assent 

We been acorded to his juggement. 

And thereupon the wyn was fet anoon ; 

We dronken, and to reste wente echoon, 820 

Withouten eny lenger taryinge. 

A morwe whan the day bigan to sprynge, 

Up roos oure host, and was oure alther cok, 

And gadrede us togidre alle in a flok, 

And forth we riden a litel more than pass, 825 

Unto the waterynge of seint Thomas. 

And there oure host bigan his hors areste, 

And seyde ; " Lordes, herkneth if yow leste. 

Ye woote youre forward, and I it you recorde. 

If even-song and morwe-song accorde, 830 

Lat se now who schal telle first a tale. 

As evere moot I drinke wyn or ale, 



344 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Whoso be rebel to my juggement 

Schal paye for al that by the weye is spent. 

Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twynne ; 835 

He which that hath the schorteste schal bygynne." 

" Sire knight," quoth he, " my maister and my lord 

Now draweth cut, for that is myn acord. 

Cometh ner," quoth he, " my lady prioresse; 

And ye, sir clerk, lat be youre schamefastnesse, 84; 

Ne studieth nat ; ley hand to, every man." 

Anon to drawen every wight bigan, 
And schortly for to tellen as it was, 
Were it by aventure, or sort, or cas, 

The soth is this, the cut fil to the knight, 845 

. Of which ful blithe and glad was every wight ; 
And telle he moste his tale as was resoun, 
By forward and by composicioun, 
As ye han herd ; what needeth wordes moo ? 
And whan this goode man seigh that it was so, 850 

As he that wys was and obedient 
To kepe his forward by his fre assent, 
He seyde : " Syn I schal bygynne the game, 
What, welcome be thou cut, a Goddes name : 
Now lat us ryde and herkneth what I seye." 855 

And with that word we riden forth oure weye ; 
And he bigan with right a merie chere 
His tale anon, and seide in this manere. 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 



345 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 

(The numbers refer to lines.) 

The language of Chaucer exhibits the fusion of Teutonic and 
French elements. Dropping most of the Anglo-Saxon inflections, 
it passes from a synthetic to an analytic condition, in which the 
relations of words are expressed, not by different terminations, but 
by separate words. It is essentially modern, but the following pecu- 
liarities are to be noted. The plural of nouns is usually formed by 
the ending es, which is pronounced as a distinct syllable; but in 
words of more than one syllable, the ending is ^. Instead of es, we 
sometimes meet with is and us. Some nouns which originally 
ended in an have en or n; as asschen, ashes; been, bees; eyen, eyes. 
The possessive or genitive case, singular and plural, is usually 
formed by ading es; as, his lordes werre (wars) ; foxes tales. But 
en is sometimes used in the plural; as, his eyen sight. The dative 
case singular ends in e; as, holte, bedde. The adjective is inflected. 
After demonstrative and possessive adjectives and the definite arti- 
cle the adjective takes the ending e; as, the yonge sonne ; his halfe 
cours. But in adjectives of more than one syllable this c is usually 
dropped. The plural of adjectives is formed by adding e; as, smale 
fowles. But adjectives of more than one syllable, and all adjectives 
in the predicate, omit the e. The comparative is formed by the 
addition of er, though the Anglo-Saxon form re is found in a few 
words ; as, derre, dearer ; ferre, farther. The personal pronouns are 
as follows : — 



SINGULAR. 

Nom. I, ich, ik 

Poss. min (myn), mi (my) 

Obj. me 

Nom. thou (thow, tow) 
Poss. thin (thyn), thi (thy) 
Obj. the, thee 



PLURAL. 

we 

our, oure 

us 

ye 

your, youre 
yow, you 



Masculine. Feminine. Neuter. All Genders. 

Nom. he she, sche hit, it, yt thei, they 

Poss. his hire, hir his here, her, hi 

Obj. him hire, hir, here hit, it, yt hem 



The present indicative plural of verbs ends in en or e ; as, we 
loven or love. The infinitive ends in en or e ; as, speken, speke, to 
speak. The present participle usually ends in yng or ynge. The 
past participle of strong verbs ends in en or e, and (as well as the 



346 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

past participle of weak verbs) is often preceded by the prefix y or i, 
answering to the Anglo-Saxon and modern German ge; as, ironne, 
yclept. The following negative forms deserve attention : nam, am 
not; nys, is not; nas, was not; neve, were not; nath, hath not; 
nadde, had not; nylle, will not; nolde, would not; nat, not, noot, 
knows not. Adverbs are formed from adjectives by adding e ; as, 
brighte, brightly ; deepe, deeply. 

The vowel sounds are closely akin to French and German. They 
may be indicated as follows: a long = a in father; a short = a in 
aha. E long = a in date; e short = e in bed. I long = ££ in sleep; 
i short = i in pin. O long = o in note; o short = o in not. U long 
== French u or German il; u short = u in full. Ai, ei-=ei in veil. 
Au, aw = ow in now. Ou, ow = ou in tour. 

Versification. — The prevailing metre in the " Canterbury Tales " 
is iambic pentameter in rhyming couplets. Occasionally there are 
eleven syllables in a line, and sometimes only nine. Short, unem- 
phatic syllables are often slurred over ; as, — 

" Sche gad | ereth flour | es par | ty white | and rede." 

Words from the French usually retain their native pronunciation ; 
that is, are accented on the last syllable. Final e is usually sounded 
as a distinct syllable except before h, a following vowel, in the per- 
sonal pronouns oure, youre, hire, here, and in many polysyllables. 
The ed of the past indicative and past participle, and the es of the 
plural and of the genitive, form separate syllables. 

In exemplification of the foregoing rules, the opening lines of the 
" Prologue " are here divided into their component iambics : — 

" Whan that | April | le, with | his schow | res swoote 
The drought | of Marche | hath per | ced to j the roote, 
And ba | thed eve | ry veyne | in swich | licour, 
Of which | vertue | engen | dred is | the flour ; 
Whan Ze | phirus | eek with | his swe | te breethe 
Enspi | red hath | in eve | ry holte | and heethe 
The ten | dre crop | pes, and | the yon | ge sonne 
Hath in | the Ram | his hal | fe cours | i-ronne, 
And sma | le fow | les ma | ken me | lodie, 
That sle | pen al | the night | with o | pen eye, 
So pri | keth hem | nature | in here | corages : — 
Thanne Ion | gen folk | to gon | on pil | grimages, 
And pal | mers for | to see | ken straun | ge strondes, 
To fer | ne hal | wes, couthe | in son | dry londes ; 
And spe | daily | from eve | ry schi | res ende 
Of En 1 gelond | to Caunt j terbury | they wende, 
The ho | ly blis | ful mar | tir for | to seeke, 
That hem | hath holp | en whan | that they |were seeke. 5 ' 



NOTES ON TEXT. . 347 

1. Whan that = when. A frequent phrase in Chaucer.— Swoote = sweet. 
The final e is the sign of the plural. 

2. Marche. Final e is silent before words beginning with h or a vowel. 
Roote. The e denotes the dative. 

3. Swich*= such. A. S. swilc, such; from szva, so, and lie, like. 

4. Vertue = power. Retains French accent on the last syllable. 

5. Eek = also. — Swete. The final <? denotes the definite declension with 
the possessive his. — Breethe. Final e for the dative. So with holte and heeth*. 
in the following line. Holt = wood, grove. 

7. Yonge sonne. The final <? of yonge for the definite declension with 
the. The sun is called young, because it has not long entered upon its annual 
course. 

8. Bam. The first constellation of the Zodiac, corresponding to the 
latter part of March and the first half of April. It is the part in April that 
the sun has run. — f-ronne, p. p. of ronne, to run. The prefixes i and y usu- 
ally denote the past participle, and correspond to the A. S. ge. Cf. modern 
German. 

9. Smale. Final e denoting the plural. — Maken is a plural form, as 
also slepen in the following line. 

11. Briketh = inciteth, prompteth. — Hem, here. See list of pronouns 
under Chaucer's "Diction." — Corages = hearts, spirits. French courage, 
from Lat. cor, heart. 

12. To gon = to go. 

13. Palmers = persons bearing palm-branches in token of having been 
to the Holy Land. — ■ Straunge strondes = strange strands or foreign shores. 

14. Feme halwes, konthe = old, or distant saints known, etc. Kouthe, 
from the A. S. cunnan, to know. Cf. uncouth. 

16. Wende = go. The past tense is zaente, English went. 

17. The holy blisful martir, Thomas a Becket. Read a sketch of hie 
life. 

18. Holpen, p. p. helpen, to help. 

19. Byfel = it befell or chanced; an impers. verb. 

20. Tabard '= a sleeveless jacket or coat, formerly worn by nobles in 
war. It was the sign of a well-known inn in Southwark, London. 

25. By aventure i-falle = by adventure, or chance fallen, etc. 
29. Esed atte beste = accommodated in the best manner. Atte, contrac* 
tion for the A. S. at tham = at the. 
31. Everychon = every one. 
34. Ther as I yow devyse = where I describe to you. Ther as = 



where. 
35- 



Natheless = nevertheless. A. S. 11a the laes = not the less. 



34§ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

36. Or that — ere that. Or, from A. S. aer, before, soon. Pace = pass. 

37. Me thinketh = it seems to me. Me is the dative after the impers. 
verb it thinketh. From the A. S. thyncan, to seem; quite distinct from thencan, 
to think. 

45. Chyvalrye = chivalry. Old French chevalerie, from cheval, a horse; 
Latin, cabalhis. 

47. Werre = wars. 

48. Noman ferre = no man farther. Ferre, comp. of fer, far. 

49. Hethenesse = heathendom. Like many other knights of his age, he 
had served as a volunteer under foreign princes. 

51. Alisaundre = Alexandria. It was taken in 1365 by Pierre de 
Lusignan, King of Cyprus. 

52. He hadde the bord bygonne. An obscure expression. Perhaps he 
had been placed at the head of the table (bord) by way of distinction; or 
bord may be the Low Ger. boort = joust, tournament. 

53. Aboven alle naciouns. He took precedence over the representatives 
of all other nations at the Prussian court. Pruce = Prussia. It was not 
unusual for English knights to serve in Prussia, with the Knights of the 
Teutonic order, who were constantly warring with their heathen neighbors in 
Lettowe (Lithuania) and in Ruce (Russia). 

54. Reysed = made an expedition. A. S. raesan, to rush, attack. Cf. 
Ger. reisen, to travel. 

56. Gernade = Granada. The city of Algezir was taken from the 
Moorish king of Granada in 1344. 

57. Belmarie and Tramassene (line 62) were Moorish kingdoms in 
Africa. 

58. Lieys, in Armenia, was taken from the Turks by Pierre de Lusignan 
about 1367, and Satalie (Attalia) by the same prince about 1352. 

59. Greete sea. Great sea is a name applied to that part of the Mediter- 
ranean lying between the Greek islands and the coast of Syria. See 
Numbers xxxiv. 6. 

60. Arive = arrival or disembarkation of troops; here a hostile landing 
probably. — Be = been. In the next line the form is ben. 

63. Lystes = lists, the ground enclosed for a tournament. 

64. like = same. A. S. ylc, same. Cf. "of that ilk." 

65. Palatye = Palathia, in Anatolia or Asia Minor. 

67. Sovereyn prys = highest praise. 

68. Worthy = brave, bold. 

70. Vileinye = villany, foul language. 

71. No maner wight = no manner of wight or person. 

72. Perfight = perfect. 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 349 

74. Ne . . . nought. A double negative form. Cf. French ne . '. . pas. 
Nought = A. S. na, no, not, and zuiht, whit, thing. The adv. not is a fur- 
ther contraction. — Gay = lively, fast; or perhaps decked out in various 
trappings. 

75. Gepoun = a short cassock or cloak. 

76. Bysmotered = besmutted or soiled. — Habergeoun = habergeon, a 
coat of mail, composed of little iron rings, extending from the neck to the 
waist, or lower. 

77. Viage = voyage, journey, travels. He made the pilgrimage in the 
dress worn on his knightly expeditions. 

79. Squyer = squire, an attendant upon a knight. Old French, escuyer, 
Low Lat., scutarius, shield-bearer, Latin, scutum, a shield. 
81. Lokkes crulle = locks curled. 

83. Evene lengthe = moderate or usual height. 

84. Delyvere = active, quick. 

85. Chivachie = military expedition or service. Fr. chevauchee (from 
chevaf), a raid or expedition of cavalry. 

88. Lady grace = lady's grace. Lady for ladye, genitive singular; the 
ending was in A. S. an. 

89. Embrowded = embroidered, in his dress. 
91. Floytynge = fluting, playing the flute. 

95. Endite = relate. 

96. Purtreye = draw, sketch. 

97. Nightertale = night-time. 

99. Servy sable — willing to be of service. 

100. Carf =■ carved, past of kerven, to carve; A. S. ceorfan. 

101. Yemen = yeoman. — A r o moo = no more. 

102. Him luste = it pleased him. — Ryde is inf. = to ride. 
104. Pocok drives = arrows winged with peacock feathers. 

109. A T ot-heed = cropped head; sometimes explained as nut-head, or 
head like a nut. 

in. Bracer = a covering for the arm to protect it from the bow-string. 
112. Bokeler = buckler, shield. 

115. Cristofre = a brooch with the image of St. Christopher, who was 
regarded with special reverence by the middle and lower classes. — Schene = 
bright, beautiful; A. S. scyne, fair. Cf. Eng., sheen; Ger. schon. 

116. Bawdrik = baldric, girdle, belt. 

117. Forster = forester. Ger. forster. — Sothly = truly, soothly. 
120. Seynt Loy = St. Louis; according to others, St. Eligius. 
124. Fetysly = prettily, cleverly. 

126. Frensch of Parys. The French of Paris, then as now, was the 



350 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

standard. The French in England was not pure. — Unknowe = unknown. 
The n of the past part, is frequently dropped. 

129. Sauce = saucer. Forks and spoons had not yet come into use. 

131. No drope tie fille = no drop fall. Double negative, as in French 
and Anglo-Saxon. 

132. Leste = pleasure, delight. 

134. Ferthing = small quantity. Literally, a fourth part. A. S. feorth^ 
fourth, and diminutive suffix ing. 

136. Raughte = reached. Preterit of reche. 

137. Sikerly = surely. Cf. Ger. sicherlich. — Disport = sport, diver- 
sion. She was fond of gayety. 

139. Peynede hire = she took pains. — Countrefete cheer e = imitate the 
manner. Formerly no bad association belonged to the word counterfeit. 

140. Estatlich= stately, high-bred. 

141. Digne = worthy. French digne, Lat. dignus. 

147. Wastel breed = cake bread, or bread made of the finest flour. 
Dogs were usually fed on coarse bread baked for the purpose. 

149. Aden =indei. pronoun one; sometimes written me. It has un- 
fortunately become obsolete. German man, French on. — Smerte = smartly. 

151. Wympel = a linen covering for the neck and shoulders. — I-pynched 
= plaited, or gathered into folds. 

152. Tretys == slender, well-proportioned. 

156. Hardily = assuredly, certainly. 

157. Fetys = neat, pretty. Seel. 124. 

159. Gauded al with grene = having large green gauds or beads. The 
reference is to a rosary. See Webster. 

162. Amor vincit omnia = love conquers all things. 

164. Chapeleyne — chaplain or assistant. — Prestes thre. Priests were 
connected with nunneries for the purpose of saying mass. 

165. A fair for the maistrie = a fair one for obtaining the mastery. 

166. Out-rydere = one who rides after hounds in hunting. 

170. Gynglen — jingling. Fashionable riders were accustomed to hang 
small bells on their bridles and harness. 

172. Ther as = where. — Selle = cell. Originally applied to the small 
chamber occupied by each monk, but afterwards also to a religious house or 
inferior monastery. 

173. Seynt Maur — seint Beneyt— St. Maur, St. Benedict. The latter 
founded the order of Benedictines at the beginning of the sixth century. St. 
Maur was a disciple of St. Benedict. The Bendictine mode of life was 
originally severely ascetic. 

174. Somdel streyt= somewhat strict, 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 35 1 

175. This ilke= this same. A. S. ylc, same. 

176. Space = path, steps. Other readings are trace and pace. 

177. A pulled lieu— a moulting or worthless hen, neither laying eggs 
nor fit for food. 

179. Reccheles = reckless, careless. A. S. reccau, to think. 

182. Tkilke= that, the like. A. S. tkylc, that, the like. 

183. Seide = should say. Pret. of Subjunctive. 

184. What= why, wherefore. — Wood = mad, foolish. Cf. Ger. Wuth, 
rage. 

186. Swynhe= to toil, labor. 

187. As A uslyn byt = As Augustine bids. St. Augustine of Canterbur)' 
urged a faithful adherence \o the monastic vows upon his clergy. 

188. Let Augustine, or Austin, have his toil kept for himself. 

189. Pricasour. = hard rider, one who spurs his horse. — Aright = on 
right, indeed. 

191. Prikyng= riding. Cf. Spenser's — 

" A gentle knight was pricking on the plaine." 

192. Lust— pleasure. Other forms are teste, list. 

193. Purfiled atte honde = embroidered at the hand or cuff. Fr. pour- 
filer, to embroider. Atte, see 1. 29. 

194. Grys = fur of the Siberian squirrel. French gris, gray. 

200. Ln good poyut= French en bon point, rotundity of figure. 

20 1 . Steep e = bright. 

202. Stemede as a forneys of a leed= shone as a furnace of a caldron 
(Jeed). 

203. Bootes souple. High boots of soft leather were worn, fitting closely 
to the leg. 

205. For-pyned= wasted away. For is intensive. Cf . Eng. pine. 

208. Frere= friar. — Wantoun= playful, sportive; literally, untrained, 
uneducated. 

209. Lymytour= a begging friar to whom a certain district or limit was 
assigned. 

210. The ordres foure = the four orders of mendicant friars. These were 
the Dominicans or Black friars, the Franciscans or Gray friars, the Carmelites 
or White friars, and the Austin friars. — Can = knows. Present tense of 
A. S. cunnan, to know. 

211. Daliaunce and fair langage = gossip and flattery. 
214. Post= pillar or support. 

220. Licentiat '= one who has license from the Pope to grant absolution 
in all cases. Curates were required to refer certain cases to the bishop. 



352 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

224. Ther as he wiste han = where he knew he would have. Han, inf. 
contracted from haven. — Pitaunce= meal of victuals, or small allowance of 
anything. 

226. I-schrive = confessed. The n of the past part, is dropped. 

233. His typet zvas ay farsed= His hood was always stuffed. Says an 
old writer: "When the order degenerated, the friar combined with the 
spiritual functions the occupation of pedler, huckster, mountebank, and 
quack doctor." 

236. Rote = a kind of harp. 

237. Yeddynges = ballads or romantic tales. 

237. Bar utterly the prys = took unquestionably the prize. 

238. Flour-de-lys = lily. Now written fleur-de-lis. 

241. Tappestere = bar-maid. The corresponding masculine was tapper. 
Ster was originally the feminine suffix of agency. Cf. spinster. 

242. Bet = better. — Lazer = leper, from Lazarus in the parable. 

243. Swich = such. See note 1. 3. 
245. Sike = sick. 

247. Poraille = poor people, rabble. 

253. Nogt 00 schoo = not one shoe. 

254. In principio. At each house the ly?nytour began his speech, " In 
principio erat verbum" = in the beginning was the Word. 

255. Ferthing. See note 1. 134. 

256. Purchas = proceeds of his begging. — Rente = regular income. 

258. love-dayes = days fixed to settle difficulties by arbitration. 

259. For ther = further. 

260. Cope = cloak or vestment of a priest. Cf . Eng. cape. Semy-cope 
(1. 262) = a short cape or cloak. 

263. Belle out of the press = bell from the mould. 

264. Lipsede = lisped. 

270. Forked berd. This was the fashion among franklins and burghers. 
273. Clapsed = clasped. 

275. Sownynge — thencres = sounding the increase. 

276. For eny thinge = at all hazards. 

277. Middelburgh and Orewelle. Middleburgh is still a port of the 
island of Walcheren in the Netherlands. Orewelle is now the port of 
Harwich. 

278. Scheeldes = French crowns (ecus) from the figure of a shield on 
one -side. 

279. His wit bisette — employed his wit or knowledge. 

281. Governaunce — management. 

282. Chevysaunce = agreement for borrowing money. 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 353 

284. Not = Know not. A T e and wot. 

285. Clerk = an ecclesiastic or man of learning; here a university stu- 
dent. — Oxenford = Oxford; not derived from the A. S. oxna, oxen, but 
from a Celtic word meaning water. 

289. Holwe = hollow. 

290. Overeste courtepy = uppermost short cloak. 

292. Office = secular calling, in contrast with benefice, an ecclesiastical 
living. 

293. Lever e = preferable. Him is dat. after lever e. Cf. Ger. lieber. 

295. Aristotle was a celebrated Greek philosopher. He was the founder 
of the Peripatetic school of philosophy, and the tutor of Alexander the Great. 
Born 384 B.C. 

296. Fithele = fiddle. — Sawtrie = psaltery, a kind of harp. 
299. Hente = get, take. 

302. Scoleye = to attend school, to study. Poor students were accus- 
tomed to beg for their support at the universities. 

303. Cure = care. 

306. Heye sentence = high meaning or lofty sentiment. 

309. Sergeant of the lawe = a lawyer of the highest rank. The Lat. 
phrase is serviens ad legem. — War — wary. 

310. Atte parvys = at the porch, of St. Paul's, where lawyers were ac- 
customed to meet for consultation. 

312. Ofgret reverence = worthy of great respect or reverence. 

318. Purchasour = prosecutor. French potirchasser, to hunt after. 

319. Al was fee simple to him. This seems to mean that all cases were 
clear to him. See etymology of fee in Webster. 

320. His prosecution might not be tainted {enfecte} or contaminated 
with any illegality. 

323. Caas and domes = cases and dooms, or precedents and decisions. 

325. Make a thing = make or draw up a contract. 

326. Pynche at = find fault with. 

328. Medle coote = coat of mixed stuff or color. 

329. Seynl of silk = girdle of silk. Cf. Eng. cincture. 

332. Dayesye = daisy; literally, day's eye. Chaucer's favorite flower. 

334. By the morwe — early in the morning. — Sop in wyn = bread 
dipped in wine; according to Bacon, more intoxicating than wine itself. 

335. Wone = pleasure, desire. Cf. Ger. Wonne, bliss. 

336. Epicurus, a famous Greek philosopher, who assumed pleasure to be 
the highest good. 

337. Pleyn delyt = full delight or perfect physical enjoyment. 
340. Seynt Julian = The patron saint of travellers and hospitality. 



354 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

341. Alway after oon = always the same. 

342. Envyned = provided with wine. 

345. Hit snewede = it snowed or abounded. 

348. Mete and soper = food and drink. See etymology of supper in 
Webster. 

349. A/ewe = cage or coop. 

350. Brem = bream. — Luce = pike. — Stewe = fish-pond. 

351. Woo zvas his cook = woe was it to his cook. — But-if= unless, if 
not. 

353. Table dormant. Previous to the fourteenth century the tables were 
rough boards laid on trestles; tables dormant, or with fixed legs, were then 
introduced, and standing in the hall were looked upon as evidences of hos- 
pitality. 

355. Sessiouns = The county courts. 

336. Knight of the schire = representative in Parliament. 

357. Anlas = knife or dagger. — Gipser = pouch. 

359. Schirreve = shire reeve, sheriff. Reeve, A. S. gerefa, = officer, 
governor. — Countour = auditor of accounts, or county treasurer. Cf. Fr. 
compter, to count. 

360. Vavasour = one next in dignity to a baron; landholder of the 
middle class. 

361. Haberdasshere = dealer in " notions " — ribbons, pins, etc. 

362. Webbe = weaver. Cf. Ger. Weber. — Tapicer = worker in tapestry. 

363. Lyvere = livery; here the uniform of the trade guild to which they 
belonged. 

365. Apiked = cleaned, kept neat. 

366. I-chaped= having plates of metal at the point of the sheath or 
scabbard. 

368. Z>d7 = part, portion. A. S. dael, a portion. Cf. Eng. dole and 
Ger. Theil. 

369. Burgeys = burgess ; here a person of the middle class. 

370. Geldehalle= guild-hall. — Deys = dais; here the raised platform 
at the upper end of the hall, on which were seats for persons of distinction. 

371. That he can = that he knows. 

372. Sc haply = fit. From to shape, hence adapted. 

373. Catel = property. Cf. Eng. chattels and cattle. — Rente = rent, 
revenue, income. Cf. Eng. render. 

377. Vigilies = vigils, or eves of festival days, when the people were 
accustomed to meet at the church for merrymaking. They wore their best 
clothes, and the wealthier women had their mantles, which were brought for 
show as well as protection, carried by servants. 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 355 

378. Riallyche — royally. 

379. For the nones = for the nonce. The older spelling is for then ones 
= for the once, for the occasion. The n, which is the sign of the dat. (A. 
S. lham, than), is carried over to the following word. 

380. Mary bones = marrow bones. 

381. Poudre-marchaunt tart = a tart or acid flavoring powder. — Galyn- 
gale = the root of an aromatic species of sedge found in the south of England. 

382. London ale was held in high esteem at that time. 

384. Mortretix = a kind of soup, of which the principal ingredients 
were fowl, fresh pork, bread-crumbs, eggs, and saffron; so called from being 
brayed in a mortar. 

386. Mormal = cancer. French mort-mal. 

387. Blank 7/ia?iger = blanc-mange, white food, composed of minced 
chicken, eggs, flour, sugar, and milk. This dish he could make with the 
best of his fellow-cooks. 

388. Wonyng fer by weste = dwelling far in the west. Cf. Ger. wohnen, 
to dwell. 

389. L>ertemouth = Dartmouth, on the south-west coast of England. 

390. Rouncy = a. common hack-horse. — As he couthe = as well as he 
could. As a seaman, he was not accustomed to riding. 

391. Gowne of faldyng = gown or robe of coarse cloth. 

392. Laas =belt, strap. Cf. Eng. lace. 

397. Burdeux = Bordeaux, a city of south-west France. — Chapma7i ■•= 
merchant or supercargo. A. S. ceap, trade, and mann, man. 
401. Craft •= calling. 

403. Herbergh = harbor, place of shelter. Cf. Eng. harbor. — Mone 
= moon, as influencing the tides. — Lodemenage = pilotage. Cf. Eng. lode, 
lodestar, lodestone. 

404. Htdle = Hull, a seaport on the north-east coast of England. — 
Cartage = Cartagena, a city on the south-east coast of Spain. 

408. Gootland = Gothland, an island in the Baltic belonging to Sweden. 
— Fynystere = Finisterre, a cape on the north-west coast of Spain. 

409. Cryk = creek, harbor. 

414. Aslronomye = astrology, the art of judging of the influence of the 
stars on the human body, etc. The medical science of the Middle Ages paid 
attention to astrological and superstitious observances. 

415. Kepte = watched. 

416. Honres = astrological hours. " He carefully watched for a favor- 
able star in the ascendant." 

417. Fort7ir/e?i= to make fortunate. The practice here referred to is 
spoken of more fully in Chaucer's House of Fame, 11. 169-180: — 



3*6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



" Ther saugh I pleyen jugelours 



And clerkes cek, which conne wel 
Alle this magike naturel, 
That craftely doon her ententes 
To maken in certeyn ascendentes 
Ymages, lo ! thrugh which magike 
To make a man ben hool or syke." 

420. The four humors of the body, to which all diseases were referred. 

424. Boote = remedy. 

426. Dragges and his letuaries = drugs and his electuaries. 

429. Esculapius was the god of medicine among the Greeks. 

430-434. The writers here mentioned were the leading medical author- 
ities of the Middle Ages. Deyscorides, or Dioscorides, a physician in Cilicia 
of the first century. Rufus, a Greek physician of Ephesus of the time of 
Trajan. Ypocras, or Hippocrates, a Greek physician of the fourth century, 
called the father of medicine. Haly, an Arabian physician of the eleventh 
century. Galen, scarcely second in rank to Hippocrates, a Greek physician 
of the second century. Serapyon, an Arabian physician of the eleventh cen- 
tury. Rhasis was a Spanish Arab of the ninth century. Avycen, an Arabian 
physician of the eleventh century. Averrois, or Averroes, an Arabian scholar 
of the twelfth century. Damascien, or Damascenus, an Arabian physician of 
the ninth century. Constantyn, or Constantius Afer, a physician of Carthage, 
and one of the founders of the University of Salerno. Bernard, a professor 
of medicine at Montpellier in France, and contemporary of Chaucer. Gatesden, 
or John of Gaddesden, physician to Edward III. , the first Englishman to hold 
the position of royal physician. Gilbertyn, supposed to be the celebrated 
Gilbertus Anglicus. 

439. Sangwin and in pers = a cloth of blood-red and sky-blue (pers). 

440. Taffata = thin silk. — Sendal = a rich, thin silk, highly esteemed 
for lining. 

441 . Esy of dispense = moderate in his expenditures. 

442. Wan in pestilence = won in pestilence; a reference to the great 
pestilence of 1348 and 1349. 

445. Of by side Bathe = from near Bath. 

446. Somdel = somewhat. — Ska the = misfortune, loss. A. S. sceathan, 
to harm, injure. Cf. Eng., scathe, and Ger. schaden. 

447. Haunt = skill, practice. 

448. Ypres and Ghent (Gaunt) were the greatest cloth-markets on the 
continent. 

450. To the offryng. An allusion to Relic Sunday, when the people 
went to the altar to kiss the relics. 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 357 

453. Keverchefs = kerchief, a square piece of cloth used to cover the 
head. French couvre-chef, the latter coming from Lat. caput. 

457. Moyste — soft, supple. 

460. Marriages were celebrated at the door of the church. 

462. As nouthe = at present. Nouthe = now + the = now + then, just 
now, at present. 

465. Boloyne = Bologna, where was preserved an image of the Virgin 
Mary. 

466. In Galicia at the shrine of St. James. Tt was believed that the 
body of the apostle had been conveyed thither. — Coloyne = Cologne, where 
the bones of the three wise men or kings of the East, who came to see the 
infant Jesus, are said to be preserved. 

467. Cowde = knew. 

468. Gat-tothed. This word is variously explained. Equivalent, perhaps, 
to gap-toothed, having the teeth some distance apart. 

470. Y-wympled = having a wimple or covering for the neck. See note 
on 1. 151. 

472. Foot-mantel '= a riding-skirt probably. 

473- Spores = spurs. 

474. Carpe = to jest, chaff. It now means to find fault with. 

476. The olde daunce = the old game, or customs. 

478. Persoun of a toun = a parish priest or parson. Lat. persona. 
Blackstone says: " A parson, persona ecclesice, is one that hath full possession 
of all the rights of a parochial church. He is called parson, persona, because 
by his person the church, which is an invisible body, is represented." Skeat 
justly observes that " this reason may well be doubted, but without affecting 
the etymology." 

482. Parischens = parishioners. 

485. Sithes = times. A. S. sith, time. Cf. Ger., Zeit. 

486. Loth = odious, hateful. It was odious to him to excommunicate 
those who failed to pay tithes due him. 

489. Offrynge = voluntary contributions of his parishioners. — Substance 
= income of his benefice or the property he had acquired. 

492. Ne lafte not = did not cease. 

493. Meschief— misfortune. 

494. Moche and lite = great and small. 

502. Lewed = unlearned, ignorant. 

503. Kepe = heed. 

507. To hyre = He did not let out his parish to a strange curate, while 
he ran to London to seek a chantry at St. Paul's — a more congenial and 
lucrative employment. The chantries were endowments for singing masses 
for souls. 



358 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

511. To ben withholde = to be maintained. 

516. A T ought despitous = not pitiless, cruel. 

517. Daungerous ne digne = domineering nor haughty. 

523. Snybbe = snub, reprove. — For the nones. See note 1. 379. 

525. Waytede after = sought or looked for. 

526. Spiced = over-scrupulous. 

530. I-lad = drawn out, carried. — Fother = load, cart-load. 

531. Swynkere = laborer. 

534. Though him gamede or smerte — though it pleased or pained him. 
536. Dyke and delve = to ditch and dig. 

541. Tabard. See note 1. 20. — Mere = mare. People of quality would 
not ride upon a mare. 

542. Reeve = steward, bailiff, officer. — Mellere = miller. 

543. Sompnour = summoner, in ecclesiastical courts. — Pardoner = 
seller of pardons or indulgences. 

544. Maunciple = an officer who purchased provisions for a college, etc. 
Lat. manceps, purchaser, contractor. 

545. Carl = churl, hardy fellow. A.S. ceorl, country-man, churl. 

547. That proved he well, for everywhere he came. — Overal ther = 
everywhere, wherever. Cf. Ger. iiberall, everywhere. 

548. Ram. A ram was the usual prize at wrestling matches. 

549. Knarre — knot. He was a thick-set, muscular fellow. 

550. Nolde = ne + wolde = would not. — Heve of harre = heave, or 
lift, off its hinges. 

551. Rennyng = running. 

554. Upon the cop right = right upon the top. Cf. Eng. coping. 

556. Berstles = bristles. A. S. byrst, a bristle, by a common transposi- 
tion of the consonants. Cf. Ger. biirsle, brush. 

557. A r ose-thurles = nostrils. A. S. thyrel, a hole. 

560. yanglere = great talker, babbler. — Golyardeys = buffoon at rich 
men's tables; a teller of ribald stories. 

563. Tho7nbe of gold refers to the miller's skill in testing the quality 
of meal or flour by rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. — Parde — 
par Dieu, a common oath. 

568. Achalours = purchasers, caterers. Fr. acheler, to buy. 

570. By taille = by tally; i.e., on credit. Fr. tailler, to cut, referring 
to the score cut on wood. 

571. Algate = always. — Waytede so in his achate = watched so in his 
purchase. 

572. Ay biforn = always before or ahead of others. 
574. Pace = pass, surpass. 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 359 

581. Propre good = own property. 

582. Bid-if he were wood = unless he were mad. 

583. As hym list desire = as it pleases him to desire. 

586. Sette here aller cappe = set all their caps — an expression meaning 

to oictzvit, overreach. 

590. His head was docked, or closely cut in front like a priest. 

594. Anditour = accountant. 

597. Neet = cattle. Cf. neat, cattle. 

598. Stoor = s'ock, store. 

603. Herde = herdsman. — Hyne = hind, servant, farm-laborer. 

604. Covyne = deceit. 

605. Adrad = afraid. — The dethe == the pestilence or plague. 

606. Wonyng = dwelling. Cf. Ger. Wohnung, dwelling. 
613. Mester = trade. French metier. 

615. Stot = stallion. 

616. Pom ely gray = dappled gray. 

617. Of per s. See note on 1. 439. 

621. Tukked = clothed in the long dress of a friar. 

622. Hyndreste of the route = hindmost of the company. 

623. Sompnour. See note 1. 543. 

625. Sawceflem = having a red, pimpled face. — A r arwe = narrow. 

627. Skalled = having the scall or scab. — Piled herd = thin beard, or 
bare in patches. 

629. Litarge = litharge. 

630. Boras = borax. — Ceriice = white lead. 
632. Whelkes = blotches, pimples. 

636. Wood. See note 1. 184. 

643. Can clepen Watte = can call Wat, or Walter. 

644. Grope = try, test; literally, to feel with the hands. 

646. Questio quid juris = The question is, what is the law in the ca^ u 

652. Pulle a fynch was a common expression for cheating a novice. 

653. Owher = anywhere. 

656. But-if. See note 11. 351 and 582. 

660. Each guilty man ought to be afraid of excommunication (cursyng) 

661. Assoillyng = absolution. O. Fr. assoilter, Lat. absolvere. 

662. War him = warn him. — Significavit = a writ of excommuni= 
cation, which usually began, "Significavit nobis venerabilis frater," etc. 

663. In daunger = in his power or jurisdiction. — At his owne gise = 
after his own fashion (gise). 

664. Gurtes = young people of both sexes. 

665. Al here reed = wholly their adviser. 



360 ' ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

667. Ale-stake = sign-post in front of an ale-house. It was usual to 
attach an ivy bush to an ale-stake. 
673. Burdoun = bass. 

676. Strike of flex — hank of flax. 

677. Unces = small, separate portions. 

679. By culpons on and 0011 = by shreds or strands one by one. 

681. Trussed— packed up. 

682. Him thought : = it seemed to him. See note 1. 37. — The new e get 
■= the new fashion. 

683. Sauf his cappe = except his cap. 

685. Vernicle — a miniature copy of the picture of Christ, which is said 
to have been miraculously imprinted on a handkerchief preserved in St. 
Peter's at Rome. 

691. Geldyng — eunuch. 

694. Male = bag, valise. — Pilwebeer — pillow-case. 

695. Oure lady veyl = our lady's veil. See note 1. 88. 

696. Gobet = piece. 

698. Hente = took, seized. 

699. Latoun — a kind of brass or tinned iron. 

700. Pigges bones, which he pretended were the bones of some saint. 
702. Poure persoun — poor parson. 

705. Japes = tricks, impostures. 

712. Affyle = file, polish. 

726. That you do not ascribe {rette) it to my ill-breeding (yileinye). 

728. Here cheer e = their appearance. 

741. Plato, a famous Greek philosopher, born about 420 B.C. 

742. Cosyn = kindred or in keeping with. The language should be in 
keeping with the thing described. 

744. Al= although. Cf. Eng. albeit. 
750. Wei to drynke us teste = it pleased us well to drink. 
753- Eygen stepe. See note 1. 201. 

754. Chepe == Cheapside, a leading street in London, on which the 
wealthiest burgesses or citizens lived. 
758. Play en = to make sport. 
761. Lordynges = sirs, gentlemen. Dim. of lord. 

765. Herbergh = inn. See note 1. 403. 

766. Don yow mirthe = cause you mirth. Cf. Eng. " / do you to wit" 
= I cause you to know. 

770. Quyte you youre meede= grant you your reward. 
772. Schapen yow to tale n = prepare yourselves, or get ready, to tell 
tales (talen). 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 361 

782. But ye be merye = if ye be not merry. 

784. Seche = seek. Cf. Ger. suchen. 

785. To make it wy's = to make it a matter of serious deliberation. 

786. Avys = advice, consideration. Cf. Fr. avis. 

787. Verdite = verdict, judgment. 
791. To schorte = to shorten. 

798. Of best sentence and most solas = the most instructive and the 
most amusing. 

799. At oure alther cost = at the cost of us all. 
810. Oure othes swore— we swore our oaths. 
816. Devys= decision, direction. 

819. Fet = fetched. A. S.fetian, to fetch. 

822. A morwe = on the morrow, the 18th of April. 

823. Our alther cok = cock or leader for us all. 

825. A litel ?nore than paas = a little faster than a pace or walk. 

826. The watering of St. Thomas was at the second mile-stone on the 
old road to Canterbury. 

827. Bigan — areste = halted. Bigan is sometimes used as an auxiliary 
= did. 

829. Forzvard= promise, covenant. A. S. forezvord, covenant, agree- 
ment. 

831. Lat se = let us see. 

835. Ferrer twynne= farther depart or travel. 

838. Acord= decision. 

840. Lat be youre schamfastnesse = let be your modesty. See etymology 
of shamefaced in Webster or Skeat. 

844. Aventure. or sort, or cas — by chance, or luck, or accident. 

845. Soth — truth. Cf. Eng. in sooth. 

847. As was resoun = as was reasonable. 

848. Forward= see note 1. 829. Composicioun = agreement. 
850. Seigh = saw. 

854. A Goddes name = in God's name. 

857. Right a merie chere = a right merry countenance. 



SELECTIONS FROM FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 

(1558^1625.) 

I. 

FIRST BOOK OF SPENSER'S FAERY QUEENE, 

CONTAYNING THE LEGEND OF THE K.NIGHT OF THE RED CROSSE, OR OF 
HOLINESSE. 

I. 

Lo ! I, the man whose Muse whylome did maske, 
As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weeds, 
Am now enforst, a farre unfitter taske, 
For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine oaten reeds, 
And sing of knights and ladies gentle deeds ; 
Whose praises having slept in silence long, 
Me, all to meane, the sacred Muse areeds 
To blazon broade emongst her learned throng : 
Fierce warres and faithful loves shall moralize my song. 

11. 
Helpe then, O holy virgin, chiefe of nyne, 
Thy weaker Novice to performe thy will ; 
Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne 
The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still, 
Of Faery knights, and fayrest Tanaquill, 
Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long 
Sought through the world, and suffered so much ill, 
That I must rue his undeserved wrong : 
O, helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my dull tong ! 

in. 
And thou, most dreaded impe of highest Jove, 
Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart 
At that good knight so cunningly didst rove, 
That glorious fire it kindled in his hart ; 
Lay now thy deadly heben bowe apart, 
And with thy mother mylde come to mine ayde ; 
Come, both ; and with you bring triumphant Mart, 
In loves and gentle jollities arraid, 
After his murdrous spoyles and bloudie rage allayd. 
362 



THE FAERY QUEENE. 3&3 

IV. 

And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly bright, 
Mirrour of grace and majestie divine, 
Great ladie of the greatest isle, whose light 
Like Phoebus lampe throughout the world doth shine, 
Shed thy faire beames into my feeble eyne, 
And raise my thoughtes, too humble and too vile, 
To thinke of that true glorious type of thine, 
The argument of mine afflicted stile : 
The which to heare vouchsafe, O dearest dread, a while. 

CANTO I. 

The patron of true Holinesse, 

Foule Errour doth defeate ; 
Hypocrisie, him to entrappe, 

Doth to his home entreate. 

I. 

A gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine, 
Ycladd in mightie amies and silver shielde, 
Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did remaine, 
The cruell markes of many a bloody fielde ; 
Yet armes till that time did he never wield : 
His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, 
As much disdayning to the curbe to yield : 
Full jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt, 
As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt. 



And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore, 
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, 
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, 
And dead, as living ever, him ador'd : 
Upon his shield the like was also scor'd, 
For soveraine hope which in his helpe he had. 
Right, faithfull, true he was in deede and word ; 
But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad ; 
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad. 



364 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

III. 
Upon a great adventure he was bond, 
That greatest Gloriana to him gave, 
(That greatest glorious queene of Faery lond,) 
To winne him worshippe, and her grace to have, 
Which of all earthly things he most did crave : 
And ever as he rode his hart did earne 
To prove his puissance in battell brave 
Upon his foe, and his new force to learne ; 
Upon his foe, a dragon horrible and stearne. 

IV. 

A lovely ladie rode him faire beside, 
Upon a lowly asse more white then snow, 
Yet she much whiter ; but the same did hide 
Under a vele, that wimpled was full low ; 
And over all a blacke stole shee did throw : 
As one that inly mournd, so was she sad, 
And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow ; 
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had ; 
And by her in a line a milkewhite lambe she lad. 

v. 
So pure and innocent, as that same lambe, 
She was in life and every vertuous lore ; 
And by descent from royall lynage came, 
Of ancient kinges and queenes, that had of yore 
Their scepters stretcht from east to westerne shore, 
And all the world in their subjection held ; 
Till that infernall feend with foule uprore 
Forwastcd all their land, and them expeld ; 
Whom to avenge she had this knight from far compeld. 



Behind her farre away a dwarfe did lag, 
That lasie seemd, in being ever last, 
Or wearied with bearing of her bag 
Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past, 



THE FAERY QUEENE. 365 

The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast, 
And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine 
Did poure into his lemans lap so fast, 
That everie wight to shrowd it did constrain ; 
And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain. 

VII. 

Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 
A shadie grove not farr away they spide, 
That promist ayde the tempest to withstand ; 
Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride, 
Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide, 
Not perceable with power of any starr : 
And all within were pathes and alleies wide, 
With footing worne, and leading inward farr : 
Faire harbour that them seems ; so in they entred ar. 

VIII. 

And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led, 
Joying to heare the birds sweete harmony, 
Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dred, 
Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky. 
Much can they praise the trees so straight and hy, 
The sayling pine ; the cedar proud and tall ; 
The vine-propp elme ; the poplar never dry ; 
The builder oake, sole king of forrests all ; 
The aspine good for staves ; the cypresse funerall ; 

IX. 

The laurell, meed of mightie conquerours 
And poets sage ; the firre that weepeth still ; 
The willow, worne of forlorne paramours ; 
The eugh, obedient to the benders will ; 
The birch for shaftes ; the sallow for the mill ; 
The mirrhe sweete-bleeding in the bitter wound ; 
The warlike beech ; the ash for nothing ill ; 
The fruitfull olive ; and the platane round ; 
The carver holme ; the maple seeldom inward sound. 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

x. 

Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, 
Untill the blustring storme is overblowne ; 
When, weening to returne whence they did stray, 
They cannot finde that path, which first was showne, 
But wander too and fro in waies unknowne, 
Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene, 
That makes them doubt their wits be not their owne : 
So many pathes, so many turnings seene, 
That which of them to take in diverse doubt they been. 

XI. 

At last resolving forward still to fare, 
Till that some end they finde, or in or out, 
That path they take, that beaten seemd most bare, 
And like to lead the labyrinth about ; 
Which when by tract they hunted had throughout, 
At length it brought them to a hollowe cave 
Amid the thickest woods. The champion stout 
Eftsoones dismounted from his courser brave, 
And to the dwarfe a while his needless spere he gave. 

XII. 

" Be well aware," quoth then that ladie milde, 
" Least suddaine mischiefe ye too rash provoke : 
The danger hid, the place unknowne and wilde, 
Breedes dreadfull doubts : oft fire is without smoke, 
And perill without show : therefore your stroke, 
Sir knight, with-hold, till further tryall made." 
" Ah ladie," sayd he, " shame were to revoke 
The forward footing for an hidden shade : 
Vertue gives her selfe light through darknesse for to wade.' 



"Yea but," quoth she, "the perill of this place 
I better wot than you : though nowe too late 
To wish you backe returne with foule disgrace, 
Yet wisedome warnes, whilest foot is in the gate, 



THE FAERY QUEENE. 3&7 

To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate. 
This is the wandring wood, this Errours den, 
A monster vile, whom God and man does hate, 
Therefore I read beware." " Fly, fly," quoth then 
The feareful dwarfe, " This is no place for living men." 

xiy. 
But, full of fire and greedy hardiment, 
The youthfull knight could not for ought be staide ; 
But forth unto the darksom hole he went, 
And looked in : his glistring armor made 
A little glooming light, much like a shade 
By which he saw the ugly monster plaine, 
Halfe like a serpent horribly displaide, 
But th'other halfe did womans shape retaine, 
Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and full of vile disdaine. 



And, as she lay upon the durtie ground, 
Her huge long taile her den all overspred, 
Yet was in knots and many boughtes upwound, 
Pointed with mortall sting. Of her there bred 
A thousand yong ones, which she dayly fed, 
Sucking upon her poisnous dugs ; each one 
Of sundrie shapes, yet all ill-favored : 
Soone as that uncouth light upon them shone, 
Into her mouth they crept, and suddain all were gone. 

XVI. 

Their dam upstart out of her den effraide, 
And rushed forth, hurling her hideous taile 
About her cursed head ; whose folds displaid 
Were stretcht now forth at length without entraile. 
She lookt about, and seeing one in mayle, 
Armed to point, sought backe to turne againe ; 
For light she hated as the deadly bale, 
Ay wont in desert darknes to remaine, 
Where plain none might her see, nor she see any plaine. 



368 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

XVII. 

Which when the valiant elfe perceiv'd, he lept 
As lyon fierce upon the flying pray, 
And with his trenchand blade her boldly kept 
From turning backe, and forced her to stay : 
Therewith enrag'd she loudly gan to bray, 
And turning fierce her speckled taile advaunst, 
Threatning her angrie sting, him to dismay ; 
Who, nought aghast, his mightie hand enhaunst : 
The stroke down from her head unto her shoulder glaunst 

XVIII. 

Much daunted with that dint her sence was dazd; 
Yet kindling rage her selfe she gathered round, 
And all attonce her beastly bodie raizd 
With double forces high above the ground : 
Tho, wrapping up her wrethed sterne arownd, 
Lept fierce upon his shield, and her huge train© 
All suddenly about his body wound, 
That hand or foot to stirr he strove in vaine. 
God helpe the man so wrapt in Errours endlesse traine ! 

XIX. 

His lady, sad to see his sore constraint, 
Cride out, " Now, now, Sir knight, shew what ye bee ; 
Add faith unto your force, and be not faint ; 
Strangle her, or els she sure will strangle thee." 
That when he heard, in great perplexitie, 
His gall did grate for grief e and high disdaine ; 
And, knitting all his force, got one hand free, 
Wherewith he grypt her gorge with so great paine, 
That soone to loose her wicked bands did her constraint 

xx. 

Therewith she spewd out of her filthie maw 
A floud of poyson horrible and blacke, 
Full of great lumps of flesh and gobbets raw, 
Which stunck so vildly, that it forst him slacke 



THE FAERY QUEENE. 369 

His grasping hold, and frome her turne him backe : 
Her vomit full of bookes and papers was, 
With loathly frogs and toades, which eyes did lacke, 
And creeping sought way in the weedy gras : 
Her filthie parbreake all the place defiled has. 

XXI. 

As when old Father Nilus gins to swell 
With timely pride above the Egyptian vale, 
His fattie waves doe fertile slime out well, 
And overflow each plaine and lowly dale : 
But, when his later spring gins to avale, 
Huge heapes of mudd he leaves, wherein there breed 
Ten thousand kindes of creatures, partly male 
And partly f email, of his fruitful seed ; 
Such ugly monstrous shapes elswher may no man reed. 

XXII. 

The same so sore annoyed has the knight, 
That, welnigh choked with the deadly stinke, 
His forces faile, ne can no lenger fight : 
Whose corage when the feend perceivd to shrinke, 
She poured forth out of her hellish sinke 
Her fruitfull cursed spawne of serpents small, 
(Deformed monsters, fowle, and blacke as inke,) 
Which swarming all about his legs did crall, 
And him encombred sore, but could not hurt at all. 

XXIII. 

As gentle shepheard in sweete eventide, 
When ruddy Phoebus gins to welke in west, 
High on an hill, his flocke to vewen wide, 
Markes which doe byte their hasty supper best ; 
A cloud of cumbrous gnattes doth him molest, 
All striving to infixe their feeble stinges, 
That from their noyance he no where can rest; 
But with his clownish hands their tender wings 
He brusheth oft, and oft doth mar their murmurings. 



370 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

XXIV. 

Thus ill bestedd, and fearefull more of shame 
Then of the certeine perill he stood in, 
Halfe furious unto his foe he came, 
Resolvd in minde all suddenly to win, 
Or soone to lose, before he once would lin ; 
And stroke at her with more then manly force, 
That from her body, ful of filthie sin, 
He raft her hatefull heade without remorse : 
A streame of cole-black blood forth gushed from her corse. 

xxv. 
Her scattered brood, soone as their parent deare 
They saw so rudely falling to the ground, 
Groning full deadly all with troublous feare 
Gathred themselves about her body round, 
Weening their wonted entrance to have found 
At her wide mouth ; but, being there withstood, 
They flocked all about her bleeding wound, 
And sucked up ther dying mothers bloud ; 
Making her death their life, and eke her hurt their good. 

XXVI. 

That detestable sight him much amazde, 
To see th' unkindly impes, of heaven accurst, 
Devoure their dam ; on whom while so he gazd, 
Having all satisfide their bloudy thurst, 
Their bellies swolne he saw with fulnesse burst 
And bowels gushing forth : well worthy end 
Of such, as drunke her life, the which them nurst 
Now needeth him no lenger labour spend, 
His foes have slaine themselves, with whom he should contend. 

XXVII. 

His lady seeing all that chaunst from farre, 
Approcht in hast to greet his victorie ; 
And saide, " Faire knight, borne under happie starre, 
Who see your vanquisht foes before you lye, 
Well worthie be you of that armory, 



THE FAERY QUEENE. 371 

Wherein ye have great glory wonne this day, 
And prov'd your strength on a strong enimie, 
Your first adventure : many such I pray, 
And henceforth ever wish that like succeed it may ! " 



Then mounted he upon his steede againe, 
And with the lady backward sought to wend : 
That path he kept, which beaten was most plaine, 
Ne ever would to any byway bend ; 
But still did follow one unto the end, 
The which at last out of the wood them brought. 
So forward on his way (with God to frend) 
He passed forth, and new adventure sought: 
Long way he travelled, before he heard of ought. 



At length they chaunst to meet upon the way 
An aged sire, in long blacke weedes yclad, 
His feete all bare, his beard all hoarie gray, 
And by his belt his booke he hanging had ; 
Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad ; 
And to the ground his eyes were lowly bent, 
Simple in shew, and voide of malice bad ; 
And all the way he prayed as he went, 
And often knockt his brest, as one that did repent. 



He faire the knight saluted, louting low, 
Who faire him quited, as that courteous was 5 
And after asked him, if he did know 
Of straunge adventures, which abroad did pas. 
" Ah ! my dear sonne," quoth he, " how should^ alas ! 
Silly old man, that lives in hidden cell, 
Bidding his beades all day for his trespas, 
Tydings of warre and worldly trouble tell? 
With holy father sits not with such thinges to mell. 

XXXI. 

" But if of daunger, which hereby doth dwell, 
And homebredd evil ye desire to heare, 



372 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Of a straunge man I can you tidings tell, 
That wasteth all this countrie, farre and neare." 
" Of suche," saide he, "I chiefly doe inquere ; 
And shall thee well rewarde to shew the place, 
In which that wicked wight his dayes doth weare : 
For to all knighthood it is foule disgrace, 
That such a cursed creature lives so long a space." 



" Far hence," quoth he, " in wastfull wildernesse 
His dwelling is, by which no living wight 
May ever passe, but thorough great distresse." 
" Now," saide the ladie, " draweth toward night ; 
And well I wote, that of your later fight 
Ye all forwearied be ; for what so strong, 
But, wanting rest, will also want of might ? 
The sunne, that measures heaven all day long, 
At night doth baite his steedes the ocean waves emong. 



" Then with the sunne take, Sir, your timely rest, 
And with new day new worke at once begin : 
Untroubled night, they say, gives counsell best.' 1 
" Right well, Sir knight, ye have advised bin," 
Quoth then that aged man : " the way to win 
Is wisely to advise ; now day is spent ; 
Therefore with me ye may take up your in 
For this same night." The knight was well content ; 
So with that godly father to his home they went. 



A litle lowly hermitage it was, 
Downe in a dale, hard by a forest's side, 
Far from resort of people that did pas 
In traveill to and froe : a little wyde 
There was an holy chappell edifyde, 
Wherein the hermite dewly wont to say 
His holy thinges each morne and eventyde : 
Thereby a christall streame did gently play, 
Which from a sacred fountaine welled forth alway. 






THE FAERY QUEENE. 373 

XXXV. 

Arrived there, the litle house they fill, 
Ne looke for entertainement, where none was ; 
Rest is their feast, and all thinges at their will : 
The noblest mind the best contentment has. 
With faire discourse the evening so they pas ; 
For that olde man of pleasing wordes had store, 
And well could file his tongue as smooth as glas : 
He told of saintes and popes, and evermore 
He strowd an Ave- Mary after and before. 



The drouping night thus creepeth on them fast ; 
And the sad humor loading their eyeliddes, 
As messenger of Morpheus, on them cast 
Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleep them biddes ; 
Unto their lodgings then his guestes he riddes : 
Where when all drownd in deadly sleepe he findes, 
He to his studie goes ; and there amiddes 
His magick bookes, and artes of sundrie kindes, 
He seekes out mighty charmes to trouble sleepy minds. 

XXXVII. 

Then choosing out few words most horrible, 
(Let none them read) thereof did verses frame ; 
With which, and other spelles like terrible, 
He bad awake blacke Plutoes griesly Dame ; 
And cursed heven ; and spake reprochful shame 
Of highest God, the Lord of life and light. 
A bold bad man, that dar'd to call by name 
Great Gorgon, prince of darkness and dead night ; 
At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to flight. 

XXXVIII. 

And forth he cald out of deepe darknes dredd 
Legions of Sprights, the which, like litle flyes 
Fluttring about his ever-damned hedd, 
Awaite whereto their service he applyes, 
To aide his friendes, or fray his enimies : 



374 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Of those he chose out two, the falsest twoo, 
And fittest for to forge true-seeming lyes ; 
The one of them he gave a message to, 
The other by him selfe staide other worke to doo. 

xxxix. 

He, making speedy way through spersed ayre, 
And through the world of waters wide and deepe, 
To Morpheus house doth hastily repaire. 
Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe, 
And low, where dawning day doth never peepe, 
His dwelling is ; there Tethys his wet bed 
Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steepe 
In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed, 
Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spred. 

XL. 

Whose double gates he findeth locked fast ; 
The one faire fram'd of burnisht yvory, 
The other all with silver overcast ; 
And wakeful dogges before them farre doe lye, 
Watching to banish Care their enimy, 
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe. 
By them the sprite doth passe in quietly, 
And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deepe 
In drowsie fit he findes ; of nothing he takes keepe. 

XLI. 

And, more to lulle him in his slumber soft, 
A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe, 
And ever-drizling raine upon the loft, 
Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne 
Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne. 
No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes, 
As still are wont t' annoy the walled towne, 
Might there be heard ; but carelesse Quiet lyes 
Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enimyes. 

XLII. 

The messenger approching to him spake ; 
But his waste wordes retournd to him in vaine : 



THE FAERY QUEENE. 375 

So sound he slept, that nought mought him awake. 
Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with paine, 
Whereat he gan to stretch : but he againe 
Shooke him so hard, that forced him to speake. 
As one then in a dreame, whose dryer braine 
Is tost with troubled sights and fancies weake, 
He mumbled soft, but would not all his silence breake. 



The sprite then gan more boldly him to wake, 
And threatned unto him the dreaded name 
Of Hecate : whereat he gan to quake, 
And, lifting up his lompish head, with blame 
Halfe angrie asked him, for what he came. 
" Hether," quoth he, " me Archimago sent, 
He that the stubborne sprites can wisely tame, 
He bids thee to him send for his intent 
A fit false dreame, that can delude the sleepers sent." 

XLIV. 

The god obayde ; and, calling forth straight way 
A diverse dreame out of his prison darke, 
Delivered it to him, and downe did lay 
His heavie head, devoide of careful carke ; 
Whose sences all were straight benumbd and starke. 
He, backe returning by the yvorie dore, 
Remounted up as light as chearefull larke ; 
And on his litle winges the dreame he bore 
In hast unto his lord, where he him left afore. 

XLV. 

Who all this while, with charmes and hidden artes, 
Had made a lady of that other spright, 
And fram'd of liquid ayre her tender partes, 
So lively, and so like in all mens sight, 
That weaker sence it could have ravisht quight : 
The maker selfe, for all his wondrous witt, 
Was nigh beguiled with so goodly sight. 
Her all in white he clad, and over it 
Cast a black stole, most like to seeme for Una fit. 



3/6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

XLVI. 

Now, when that ydle dreame was to him brought 
Unto that elfin knight he bad him fly, 
Where he slept soundly void of evil thought, 
And with false shewes abuse his fantasy, 
In sort as he him schooled privily. 
And that new creature, borne without her dew, 
Full of the makers guyle, with usage sly 
He taught to imitate that lady trew, 
Whose sembla ice she did carrie under feigned hew. 

XLVII. 

Thus, v\ ell instructed, to their worke they haste; 
And, comn ing where the knight in slomber lay, 
The one uj on his hardie head him plaste, 
And made him dreame of loves and lustfull play, 
That nigh nis manly hart did melt away. 



XLIX. 
In this great passion of unwonted lust, 
Or wonted feare of doing ought amis, 
He starte.th up, as seeming to mistrust 
Some secret ill, or hidden foe of his. 
Lo ! there before his face his ladie is, 
Under blacke stole hyding her bayted hooke ; 
And as halfe blushing offred him to kis, 
With gentle blandishment and lovely looke, 
Most like that virgin true, which for her knight him took 



All cleane dismayd to see so uncouth sight, 
And half enraged at her shamelesse guise, 
He thought have slaine her in his fierce despight ; 
But, hastie heat tempring with sufferance wise, 
He stayde his hand ; and gan himselfe advise 
To prove his sense, and tempt her faigned truth. 
Wringing her hands, in wemens pitteous wise, 
Tho can she weepe, to stirre up gentle ruth 
Both for her noble blood, and for her tender youth. 



THE FAERY QUEENE. 377 



And sayd, " Ah Sir, my liege lord, and my love, 
Shall I accuse the hidden cruell fate, 
And mightie causes wrought in heaven above, 
Or the blind god, that doth me thus amate, 
For hoped love to winne me certaine hate? 
Yet thus perforce he bids me do, or die. 
Die is my dew ; yet rew my wretched state, 
You, whom my hard avenging destinie 
Hath made judge of my life or death indifferently. 

LII. 

44 Your owne deare sake forst me at first to leave 
My fathers kingdom " — There she stopt with teares ; 
Her swollen hart her speech seemd to bereave ; 
And then againe begun : " My weaker yeares, 
Captiv'd to fortune and frayle worldly feares, 
Fly to your fayth for succour and sure ayde : 
Let me not die in languor and long teares. 1 ' 
" Why, dame," quoth he, "what hath ye thus dismayd? 
What frayes ye, that were wont to comfort me affrayd? " 



" Love of your selfe, 11 she saide, " and deare constraint, 
Lets me not sleepe, but waste the wearie night 
In secret anguish and unpittied plaint, 
Whiles you in carelesse sleepe are drowned quight." 
Her doubtfull words made that redoubted knight 
Suspect her truth ; yet since no untruth he knew, 
Her fawning love with foule disdainefull spight 
He would not shend ; but said, " Deare dame, I rew, 
That for my sake unknowne such griefe unto you grew : 

LIV. 

" Assure your selfe, it fell not all to ground ; 
For all so deare as life is to my hart, 
I deeme your love, and hold me to you bound : 
Ne let vaine feares procure your needlesse smart, 
Where cause is none ; but to your rest depart." 



378 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Not all content, yet seemd she to appease 
Her mournefull plaintes, beguiled of her art, 
And fed with words that could not chose but please ; 
So, slyding softly forth she turnd as to her ease. 



Long after lay he musing at her mood, 
Much griev'd to thinke that gentle dame so light, 
For whose defence he was to shed his blood. 
At last, dull wearines of former fight 
Having yrockt asleepe his irkesome spright, 
That troublous dreame gan freshly tosse his braine 
With bowres, and beds, and ladies deare delight : 
But, when he saw his labour all was vaine, 
With that misformed spright he backe returnd againe. 



NOTES TO THE FAERY QUEENE. 379 



NOTES TO THE FAERY QUEENE. 

( The numbers refer to lines.) 

1. i. Lo ! I, the man. — An imitation of the lines prefixed to Virgil's 
yEneid. — Whylome = formerly, in time past. A. S. hwilnm, dat. pi. of 
hwil, time, and so meaning at ti?nes. 

2. Lowly Shepheards weeds. — Areference to "The Shepherd's Calendar," 
published in 1579. See sketch of Spenser. — Weeds = garments. A. S. 
waed, garment. Now used chiefly in the phrase, " a widow's weeds." 

4. Oaten reeds. — The musical instrument, made of the hollow joint of 
oat straw, which the poet employed as " lowly shepherd." 

7. Areeds = advises, commands. A. S. araedan, to tell, speak. 

8. To blazon broade = to proclaim abroad. 

II. I. holy Virgin, chief e of nyne. — Clio, first of the nine Muses. 
She presided over history and epic poetry. 

2. Thy weaker novice = thy too weak novice. A Latinism not infre- 
quent in Spenser. 

3. Scryne = a case or chest for keeping books. A. S. serin, Lat. serin- 
turn, a chest. Mod. Eng. shrine, a place in which sacred things are 
deposited. 

5. Tanaquill, an ancient British princess, here intended to represent 
Queen Elizabeth. 

6. Briton Prince = King Arthur. 

III. I. Dreaded impe of highest Jove= Cupid or Love; in mythology 
sometimes represented as the son of Jupiter and Venus. Impe = scion or 
offspring; formerly used in a good sense. 

3. Rove = to shoot an arrow, not point blank, but with an elevation. 
5. Heben— of ebony wood, ebon; from the Hebrew hobnim, ebony 
wood, through Gr., Lat., and Fr. From Heb. eben, a stone. 

7. Mart = Mars, the god of war. 

IV. 3. Great ladie = Queen Elizabeth. Two years after the defeat of 
the Armada, she deserved this title; but as much can hardly be said of the 
appellation " goddesse heavenly bright," as the Queen was in her fifty-seventh 
year. But such was the abject flattery of the age. 



3&) ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

5. Eyne = eyes. Written also eyen; both are old plu. forms. A. S. 
eage, plu. eagan. 

7. Type of thine = Una, or Truth. 

8. Argument = subject-matter; afflicted = lowly, humble; stile = pen. 
The whole line may be rendered, 77/^ subject-?natter of my lowly pen. 

9. Dread = object of reverence. 

Canto I. 

1. 1. /£ £,?»//£ Knight = the Knight of the Red Cross, representing 
Holiness, and also the model Englishman. See remarks on the " Faery 
Queene." — Pricking = to ride or spur on quickly. 

2. Ycladd = past par. of clad. Y stands for the A. S. prefix £<?, affixed 
to any part of the verb, but especially to the past par. Cf. Ger. ge, prefix of 
the past par. Of very frequent occurrence in Spenser. — Mightie amies = the 
Christian armor described in the last chapter of Ephesians. See introductory 
remarks. 

5. Yet amies, etc. — See introductory remarks. The knight had hitherto 
been " a tall clownish young man." 

8. Jolly = handsome; Yx.joli, gay, pretty. 

9. Giusts = jousts, tilts, or encounters on horseback at tournaments. 
O. Fr. joster, Lat. juxtare, to approach. From juxta, near. 

II. I. Bloodie = red. 

4. And dead, as living ever, etc. — A reference to Rev. i. 18. " I am 
he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore." 

8. Cheere = face, countenance. O. Fr. chiere, Lat. cara, face, Gr. 
kara, the head. 

9. Ydrad = past par. of dread. See Ycladd, stanza i., line 2. 

III. 2. Gloriana = The Faery Queene, who "stands for the glory of 
God in general, and for Queen Elizabeth in particular." See introductory 
remarks. 

6. Earne = yearn. A. S. gyrnan, to yearn; from georn, desirous. 

9. His foe, a dragon = Satan, or the powers of evil, in general, and the 
Papacy in particular. 

IV. 1. Lovely ladie = Una, or Truth, in general, and the Protestant 
Church in particular. See introduction. — Eaire = fairly, the e being an ad- 
verbial termination. 

3. Yet she much whiter. — Hallam criticises this as absurd, (Lit. of 
Europe, Vol. I. p. 354) referring it to Una's outward appearance, and not, 
as Spenser intended, to her inward purity. 

4. Wimpled = plaited or folded like the white cloth worn by nuns 
around the neck. 



NOTES TO THE FAERY QUEENE. 381 

5. Stole = a long robe. A. S. stole = Lat. stola = Gr. stole, a robe. 

8. Seemed = it seemed. Spenser often omits the subject with imper- 
sonal verbs. 

9. Z«</ = led. A. S. laedan. 

V. 3. From royall lynage. — Una, Truth, or the Protestant Church, 
traces her lineage, not from the Papacy, but from the Church Universal. 

8. Forwasted = utterly wasted. For (Ger. ver) is an A. S. prefix, 
generally with the sense of loss or destruction, but frequently also, as here, 
intensive. 

VI. I. A dzvarfe. — The significance of the dwarf is doubtful; but 
probably he is intended to represent prudence, as he bears the " bag of need- 
ments at his backe." 

5. Suddeine = suddenly. See note stanza iv., line I. 

7. Leman = a sweetheart, or one loved, of either sex. A. S. leof, dear, 
and mann, a person. 

8. To shrowd = to take shelter. 

VII. 2. A shadie grove = the wood of Error, at first enchanting, but 
at last leading astray. 

VIII. 6. Sayling pine. — A reference to its use for masts of sailing ships. 
7. The vine-propp elm. — In Italy the elm was anciently used to prop 

or support the vine. 

9. The cypresse funeral!. — The cypress was anciently used to adorn 
tombs, and hence came to be an emblem of mourning. 

IX. 2. The Jirre that weepeth = that distilleth resin. 

3. The willow = the badge of deserted lovers. 

4. The eugh, obedient, etc. — A reference to the fact that bows were made 
of the yew. 

5. The sallozv = a kind of willow. 

6. The 7tiirrhe sweete-bleeding, etc. — The myrrh, which has a bitter 
taste, exudes a sweet-smelling gum. 

7. The warlike beech. — So called because suitable for warlike arms, or 
because used by the ancients for war-chariots. 

9. The carver holme = evergreen oak, good for carving. "Everyone 
knows," says Hallam, "that a natural forest never contains such a variety of 
species; nor, indeed, could such a medley as Spenser, treading in the steps of 
Ovid, has brought from all soils and climates, have existed long if planted by 
the hands of man." 

X. 3. Weening — thinking. A. S. wenan, to imagine, hope; from 
wen, expectation, hope. 

7. Doubt = fear. This was the common meaning in Middle English. 
Fr. douter, Lat. dubitare, to doubt. 

XI. 4. And like to lead the labyrinth about = and likely to lead out 



382 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of the labyrinth. — Aboztt = A. S. abutan, for onbutan = on + be -f- utan, on 
by the outside. 

5. 7>arf = track, path. 

8. Eftsoones = soon after, immediately. A. S. eftsone. 

XII. 7. Shame were to revoke = it were shame to recall. 

XIII. 4. In the gate = in the way. 

7. .Aw. — A singular for a plural verb; a not infrequent solecism in 
Spenser's time. 

8. Read = advise. A.S. raedan, to advise. Cf. stanza i. line 7. 

XIV. I. Greedy hardiment = hardihood, or intrepidity, eager for ad- 
venture. 

7. Displaide = unfolded. O. Fr. despleier = Lat. afo, apart, and plicare, 
to fold. 

9. Eull of vile disdaine = full of vileness exciting disdain. 

XV. 3. Boughtes = bends, folds. 

8. Uncouth = unknown, strange. A. S. un, not, and cuth, known, past 
par. of cunnan. 

XVI. I. Upstart = upstarted. 

4. Without entraile = without fold or entanglement. 

6. Armed to point = armed at every point, completely. 

7. Bale = evil, destruction. A. S. bealu, disaster, destruction. 

XVII. I. Elfe = the knight, so called because coming from fairyland. 
3. Trenchand = trenchant, cutting. Fr. trencher, to cut. The and is 

an old participial form. 

7. Threatning = brandishing. 

8. Enhaunst = raised, lifted up. 

XVIII. 1. Z>zW = blow. A. S. dynty blow. 

5. Tho = then. A. S. tha. 

6. Traine — tail. Fr. train, a tail. 

9. Traine = snare. Fr. traine. From Lat. trahere, to draw. 

XIX. 6. His gall did grate — his anger stirred. The gall was anciently 
supposed to be the seat of anger. 

8. Gorge = throat. Fr. gorge, throat. 

XX. 3. Gobbets = mouthfuls, little lumps. O. Fr. gobet, a morsel of 
food; from£tf£, a gulp, with diminutive suffix et. 

6. Full of bookes and papers. — A reference no doubt to the numerous 
scurrilous attacks by Roman Catholic writers upon Queen Elizabeth and 
Protestantism. 

9. Parbreake = vomit. This stanza is to be contemplated only with 
averted face ! 

XXI. 5. To avale — to fall, sink. O. Fr. avaler, from Lat. ad vallem, 
to the valley, downward. Cf. avalanche. 



NOTES TO THE FAERY QUEENE. 383 

7. Ten thousand kindes of creatures. This was commonly believed by 
the writers of Spenser's day. 

9. Reed — perceive, discover. See stanza xiii., line 8. 

XXII. 3. Ne = nor. 

5. Sinke — a receptable for filth. 

XXIII. 2. Phoebus = the sun. — To welke = to fade, to grow dim. 

7. A T oyance = annoyance. O. Fr. anoi = Lat. in odio, in hatred. 

XXIV. 1. Ill bestedd = badly situated. 
5. Lin = cease. A. S. linnan, to cease. 

8. Raft = reft; preterit of reave. A. S. reofan, to deprive. 

XXVI. 2. Impes. See stanza iii., line 1. 

7. A^r /?)£ the which them nurst. The which refers to her. In 
Spenser's day which was often used for who; as "Our Father which art in 
heaven." 

9. Should contend '= was to contend, or should have con f *ended. 

XXVII. 1. Chatmst = happened. 

3. Borne tinder happie starre. A reference to astrology, or the belief 
in the influence of the stars upon the destiny of man. 

5. Armory = armor. See introduction. 

9. That like succeed it may = that like victories may succeed or follow it. 

XXVIII. 2. To wend — to go. A. S. wendan, to go. Of special 
interest as supplying the preterit of to go. 

4. Ne == nor. 

7. With God to frend = With God for friend. 

XXIX. 2. An aged sire = Archimago, or Hypocrisy. 

XXX. 1. Touting = bowing. A. S. lutan, to stoop. 
2. Quite = to requite, to satisfy a claim. 

6. Silly = simple, harmless. "The word has much changed its mean- 
ing," says Skeat. "It meant timely ; then lucky, happy, blessed, innocent, 
simple, foolish.'''' A. S. saelig, happy, prosperous. Cf. Ger. selig. 

7. Bidding his beades = saying, or praying his prayers. Beade = prayer; 
A. S. bed, a prayer, from A. S. biddan, to pray. Cf. Ger. Gebet. 

9. Sits not = it sits not, is not becoming. Cf. Fr. il sied, it is becom- 
ing. — To mell = to meddle, interfere with. O. Fr. meller, mesler, from 
Lat. misculare, to mix. 

XXXII. 3. Thorough = through. A. S. thurh. Cf. Ger. durch. 

5. Wote = know. A. S. witan, to know. 

6. Forwearied '= thoroughly weary. See stanza v., line 8. 

9. Doth baite = doth feed. Literally bait = to make to bite. To bait 
a bear is to make the dogs bite him; to bait a horse is to make him eat. 

XXXIII. 7. In — inn. A. S. inn, a lodging. 
' XXXIV. 4. A little wyde = a little apart. 



384 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

5. Edifyde = built. O. Fr. edifier, Lat. cedificare, to build, = cedes, a 
building, and facere, to make. 

6. Wont = was wont. Wont is properly a past par. of Ttwz, to dwell, 
to be used to. 

XXXV. 9. Ave-Mary = Ave Maria, an invocation to the Virgin Mary. 

XXXVI. 2. And the sad humor, etc. = the sweet " slombring deaw," 
cast on them by Morpheus, the god of sleep and dreams. 

5. Riddes = conducts, removes. A. S. hredan, to deliver. 

XXXVII. 4. Blacke Plutoes griesly Dame. Pluto is the god of the 
infernal regions, or realms of darkness; hence the epithet black. His wife is 
Proserpine, whom Pluto carried off as she was gathering flowers in Sicily. 
As the inflicter of men's curses on the dead, she is called grisly, hideous. 

8. Great Gorgon = Not Medusa, a sight of whom turned the beholder 
to stone, but Demo-gorgon, an evil divinity that ruled the spirits of the lower 
world. 

9. Cocytus = A river of the infernal region, a branch of the Styx. The 
former is known as the river of lamentation, the latter as the river of hate. 
The other two rivers of Hades are Acheron, the river of grief, and Phlege- 
thon, the river of burning. So Milton speaks 

" Of four infernal rivers, that disgorge 

Into the burning lake their baleful streams: 
Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate ; 
Sad Acheron, of sorrow black and deep ; 
Cocytus, named of lamentation loud, 
Heard on the rueful stream ; fierce Phlegethon, 
Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage." 

Paradise Lost, ii. 577. 

XXXVIII. 2. Sprights = spirits. Sprite is the more correct spelling. 
From Fr. esprit, spirit. 

5. Fray = frighten, terrify. A short form for affray. O. Fr. effraier, 
to frighten, = Low. Lat. exfrigidare. 

XXXIX. 1. Spersed = dispersed. Lat. dis, apart, and spargere, to 
scatter. 

6. Tethys = the wife of Oceanus, and daughter of Uranus and Terra. 

7. Cynthia = the goddess of the moon; called also Diana and Artemis. 
XL. 4. Dogges before them farre doe lye — dogs lie at a distance in 

front of them. 

9. Takes keepe = takes heed or care. 

XLII. 3. Mought = might. A. S. mugan, to be able. 

6. That forced = that he forced. 

7. Dryer braine. — Spenser seems to consider a " dry brain " the source 
>f troubled dreams. 



NOTES TO THE FAERY QUEENE. 3§5 

XLIII. 3. Hecate = an infernal divinity, who at night sends from the 
lower world all kinds of demons and phantoms. 

9. Sleepers sent = sleeper's sensation. 

XLIV. 2. Diverse dreame — a diverting or distracting dream. Lat. 
dis, apart, and vertere, to turn. 

4. Carke = anxiety, care. A. S. care, care. 

5. Starke = stiff, rigid. A. S. stearc, strong, stiff. 
9. Afore = before. A. S. onforan, in front, before. 
XLV. 9. Stole = a long robe. See stanza iv., line 5. 
XLVI. 5. In sort as = in the manner that. 

6. Borne without her dew = born unnaturally; or, perhaps, without the 
due qualities of a real woman. 

7. Usage sly = sly or artful conduct. 

XLVII. 3. Hardie = strong, brave. Fr. hardi, stout, bold. 
L. I. Uncouth = unknown, strange. See stanza xv., line 8. 
4. Sufferance = moderation. 

6. To prove his sense, and tempt her faigned truth = to test the evidence 
of his senses, and try her professed sincerity. 

8. Tho = then. See stanza xviii., line 5. — Can = began. — Ruth = 
pity, compassion. 

LI. 4. The blind god — Cupid, the god of love. — Amate = subdue, 
daunt. O. Fr. amatir, from mat, weak, dull. 

7. Du = to die. — Rew = rue, lament. 

LI I. I. Your own dear sake, etc. — This is false. See introduction for 
an account of Una's coming to the court of the Faery Queene. 

3. To bereave = to take away, to deprive her of. A. S. be, and reafian, 
to rob. 

9. Frayes = frightens. See stanza xxxviii., line 5. 
LIII. 5. Doubtfull — exciting doubt, suspicions. 

8. Shend= reproach, spurn. A. S. scendan, to reproach. — Rew = 
rue, lament. 

LIV. I . It fell not all to ground = it was not all lost or thrown away. 

7. Beguiled of her art = craftily deluded out of an opportunity to exer- 
cise her art. 

LV. 5. Irksome sp right = wearied spirit. 

8. When he saw, etc., = when the dream saw. The dream is personified. 

9. That misformed spright = the feigned Una. 



II. 

BACON'S ESSAYS. 

OF TRUTH. 

"What is truth? " 1 said jesting 2 Pilate, and would not stay for an 
answer. Certainly there be that 3 delight in giddiness, 4 and count 
it a bondage to fix a belief; affecting 5 free-will in thinking, as well as 
in acting. And though the sects of philosophers 6 of that kind be 
gone, yet there remain certain discoursing 7 wits, which are of the 
same veins, though there be not so much blood in them as was in 
those of the ancients. But it is not only the difficulty and labour which 
men take in finding out of truth, nor, again, that, when it is found, 
it imposeth 8 upon men's thoughts, that doth bring lies in favour ; but 
a natural though corrupt love of the lie itself. One of the later schools 
of the Grecians examineth the matter, and is at a stand 9 to think what 
should be in it, that men should love lies, where neither they make 
for pleasure, as with poets, 10 nor for advantage, as with the merchant, 
but for the lie's sake. But I cannot tell : this same truth is a naked 
and open daylight, that doth not show the masques and mummeries 
and triumphs of the world half so stately and daintily " as candle-lights. 
Truth may perhaps come to the price of a pearl, that showeth best by 
day, but it will not rise to the price 12 of a diamond or carbuncle, 13 
that showeth best in varied lights. A mixture of a lie doth ever add 
pleasure. Doth any man doubt that, if there were taken out of men's 
minds vain opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations, imaginations as 
one would, and the like, it would leave the minds of a number of men 
poor shrunken things, full of melancholy and indisposition, and un- 
pleasing to themselves? One of the fathers, 14 in great severity, called 
poesy vinum dcs?nouum , 15 because it filleth the imagination, and yet 
it is but with the shadow of a lie. But it is not the lie that passeth 
through the mind, but the lie that sinketh in, and settleth in it, that 
doth the hurt, such as we spake of before. But howsoever l6 these 
things are thus in men's depraved judgments and affections, yet truth, 
which only doth judge itself, teacheth, that the inquiry of truth, which 
is the love-making or wooing of it, the knowledge of truth, which is 
the presence of it, and the belief of truth, which is the enjoying of it, 
is the sovereign good of human nature. The first creature 1? of God, 
386 



BACON'S ESSAYS. 3§7 

in the works of the days, was the light of the sense ; the last was the 
light of reason ; and His sabbath work ever since is the illumination 
of His Spirit. First, He breathed light upon the face of the matter, 
or chaos ; l8 then He breathed light into the face of man ; and still He 
breatheth and inspireth light into the face of His chosen. The poet 
that beautified the sect, 19 that was otherwise inferior to the rest, saith 
yet excellently well: "It is a pleasure to stand upon the shore, and 
to see ships tossed upon the sea ; a pleasure to stand in the window 
of a castle, and to see a battle, and the adventures 2 ° thereof below : 
but no pleasure is comparable to the standing upon the vantage ground 
of truth," (a hill not to be commanded, 21 and where the air is always 
clear and serene,) " and to see the errors and wanderings, and mists 
and tempests, in the vale below : " so 22 always that this prospect 23 be 
with pity, and not with swelling or pride. Certainly it is Heaven upon 
Earth to have a man's mind move in charity, rest in Providence, and 
turn upon the poles of truth. 

To pass from theological and philosophical truth to the truth of 
civil business : It will be acknowledged, even by those that practise 
it not, that clear and round 24 dealing is the honour of man's nature, 
and that mixture of falsehood is like alloy 25 in coin of gold and 
silver, which may make the metal work the better, but it embaseth 26 it. 
For these winding and crooked courses are the goings of the serpent ; 
which goeth basely upon the belly, and not upon the feet. There is 
no vice that doth so cover a man with shame as to be found false and 
perfidious : and therefore Montaigne 27 saith prettily, when he inquired 
the reason why the word of the lie should be such a disgrace and such 
an odious charge : saith he, "If it be well weighed, to say that a man 
lieth, is as much as to say that he is brave towards God, and a coward 
towards men. For a lie. faces God, and shrinks from man." Surely 
the wickedness of falsehood and breach of faith cannot possibly be so 
highly expressed, as in that it shall be the last peal to call the judg- 
ments of God upon the generations of men ; it being foretold that, 
when " Christ cometh," He shall not " find faith upon the Earth." 

OF REVENGE. 

Revenge is a kind of wild justice, which the more Man's nature 
runs to, the more ought law to weed it out : for, as for the first wrong, 
it doth but offend the law, but the revenge of that wrong putteth the 
law out of office. Certainly, in taking revenge, a man is but even with 



3&S ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

his enemy, but in passing it over he is superior; for it is a prince's 
part to pardon : and Solomon, I am sure, saith, "It is the glory of a 
man to pass by an offence. 1 ' 1 That which is past is gone and irrev- 
ocable, 2 and wise men have enough to do with things present and to 
come ; therefore they do but trifle with themselves that labour in past 
matters. There is no man doth a wrong for the wrong's sake, but 
thereby to purchase himself profit, or pleasure, or honour, or the like ; 
therefore why should I be angry with a man for loving himself better 
than me? And if any man should do wrong merely out of ill-nature, 
why, yet it is but like the thorn or briar, which prick and scratch be- 
cause they can do no other. The most tolerable sort of revenge is 
for those wrongs which there is no law to remedy ; but then let a man 
take heed the revenge be such as there is no law to punish, else a 
man's enemy is still beforehand, and it is two for one. Some, when 
they take revenge, are desirous the party should know whence it cora- 
eth : this is the more generous ; for the delight seemeth to be not so 
much in doing the hurt as in making the party repent : but base and 
crafty cowards are like the arrow that flieth in the dark. Cosmus, 
Duke of Florence, 3 had a desperate 4 saying against perfidious or neg- 
lecting 5 friends, as if those wrongs were unpardonable. "You shall 
read," saith he, " that we are commanded to forgive our enemies; but 
you never read that we are commanded to forgive our friends." But 
yet the spirit of Job was in a better tune : " Shall we," saith he, " take 
good at God's hands, and not be content to take evil also? " 6 and so 
of friends in a proportion. This is certain, that a man that studieth 
revenge keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal and 
do well. Public revenges 7 are for the most part fortunate; as that 
for the death of Caesar ; 8 for the death of Pertinax ; 9 for the death of 
Henry the Third of France ; IO and many more. But in private re- 
venges it is not so ; nay, rather vindictive persons live the life of 
witches; who, as they are mischievous, so end they unfortunate. 11 

OF ADVERSITY. 

It was a high speech of Seneca, (after the manner of the Stoics, 1 ) 
that " the good things which belong to prosperity are to be wished, 
but the good things that belong to adversity are to be admired," — 
Bona rerum secn?idaru7n optabilia, adversarum mirabilia. Certainly, 
if miracles be the command over Nature, they appear most in adversity. 
It is yet a higher speech of his than the other, (much too high for a 



BACON'S ESSAYS. 3§9 

heathen,) " It is true greatness to have in one the frailty of a man, 
and the security of a god," — Vere magnum habere fragilitatem hom- 
mzs, securitatem dei. This would have done better in poesy, where 
transcendencies 2 are more allowed; and the poets indeed have been 
busy with it ; for it is in effect the thing which is figured in that strange 
fiction of the ancient poets, which seemeth not to be without mystery ; 3 
nay, and to have some approach to the state of a Christian; "that 
Hercules, 4 when he went to unbind Prometheus, (by whom human 
nature is represented,) sailed the length of the great ocean in an 
earthen pot or pitcher," lively describing Christian resolution, that 
saileth in the frail bark of the flesh through the waves of the world. 
But, to speak in a mean, 5 the virtue of prosperity is temperance, the 
virtue of adversity is fortitude, which in morals is the more heroical 
virtue. Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Testament, adversity 
is the blessing of the New, which carrieth the greater benediction, and 
the clearer revelation of God's favour. Yet, even in the Old Testa- 
ment, if you listen to David's harp, you shall hear as many hearse-like 
airs 6 as carols ; and the pencil of the Holy Ghost hath laboured more 
in describing the afflictions of Job than the felicities of Solomon. 
Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes ; and adversity is 
not without comforts and hopes, We see in needleworks and em- 
broideries, it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and 
solemn ground, than to have a dark and melancholy work upon a light- 
some ground : judge, therefore, of the pleasure of the heart by the 
pleasure of the eye. Certainly virtue is like precious odours, most 
fragrant when they are incensed, 7 or crushed : for prosperity doth best 
discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue. 

OF MARRIAGE AND SINGLE LIFE 

He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune ; for 
they are impediments r to great enterprises, either of virtue or mis- 
chief. Certainly the best works, and of greatest merit for the pub- 
lic, have proceeded from the unmarried or childless men, which 2 both 
in affection and means have married and endowed the public. Yet 
it were great reason that those that have children should have great- 
est care of future times, unto which they know they must transmit 
their dearest pledges. Some there are who, though they lead a single 
life, yet their thoughts do end with themselves, and account future 
times impertinences ; 3 nay, there are some other that account wife 



390 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

and children but as bills of charges ; 4 nay, more, there are some 
foolish rich covetous men that take a pride in having no children, 
because s they may be thought so much the richer ; for perhaps they 
have heard some talk, " Such an one is a great rich man,' 1 and an- 
other except to it, " Yea, but he hath a great charge 6 of children ; " as 
if it were an abatement to his riches. But the most ordinary cause of 
a single life is liberty, especially in certain self-pleasing and humorous 7 
minds, which are so sensible of every restraint, as they will go near to 
think their girdles and garters to be bonds and shackles. Unmarried 
men are best friends, best masters, best servants ; but not always best 
subjects, for they are light to run away, and almost all fugitives are of 
that condition. A single life doth well with churchmen, 8 for charity 
will hardly water the ground where it must first fill a pool. 9 It is in- 
different for judges and magistrates ; for if they be facile and corrupt, 
you shall have a servant five times worse than a wife. For soldiers, I 
find the generals commonly, in their hortative, 10 put men in mind of 
their wives and children ; and I think the despising of marriage 
amongst the Turks maketh the vulgar soldier more base. Certainly 
wife and children are a kind of discipline of humanity ; and single 
men, though they be many times more charitable, because their means 
are less exhaust," yet, on the other side, they are more cruel and hard- 
hearted, (good to make severe inquisitors,) because their tenderness 
is not so oft called upon. Grave natures, led by custom, and therefore 
constant, are commonly loving husbands, as was said of Ulysses, 
Vetnlam snam prcetulit inunortalitati. 12 Chaste women are often 
proud and froward, as presuming upon the merit of their chastity. It 
is one of the best bonds, both of chastity and obedience, in the wife, 
if she think her husband wise, which she will never do if she find him 
jealous. Wives are young men's mistresses, companions for middle 
age, and old men's nurses ; so as ' 3 a man may have a quarrel r4 to 
marry when he will : but yet he was reputed one of the wise men that 
made answer to the question when a man should marry, "A young 
man not yet, an elder man not at all. 1 ' It is often seen that bad hus- 
bands have very good wives ; whether it be that it raiseth the price of 
their husbands 1 kindness when it comes, or that the wives take a pride 
in their patience ; but this never fails, if the bad husbands were of 
their own choosing, against their friends 1 consent ; for then they will 
be sure to make good their own folly. 



BACON'S ESSAYS. 391 



OF GREAT PLACE. 



Men in great place are thrice servants, — servants of the sovereign 
or State, servants of fame, and servants of business ; so as * they have 
no freedom, neither in their persons, nor in their actions, nor in their 
times. It is a strange desire to seek power and to lose liberty ; or to 
seek power over others, and to lose power over a man's self. The ris- 
ing unto place is laborious, and by pains men come to greater pains ; 
and it is sometimes base, and by indignities 2 men come to dignities. 
The standing is slippery, and regress is either a downfall, or at least 
an eclipse, which is a melancholy thing: Ctun 7ion sis qui fueris, non 
esse cur velis vivere? Nay, retire men cannot when they would, 
neither will they when it were reason, 4 but are impatient of private- 
ness even in age and sickness, which require the shadow ; 5 like old 
townsmen, that will be sitting at their street-door, though thereby they 
offer age to scorn. Certainly great persons had need to borrow other 
men's opinions to think themselves happy ; for if they judge by their 
own feeling, they cannot find it : but if they think with themselves 
what other men think of them, and that other men would fain be as 
they are, then they are happy as it were by report, when, perhaps, 
they find the contrary within ; for they are the first that find their own 
griefs, though they be the last that find their own faults. Certainly 
men in great fortunes are strangers to themselves, and while they are 
in the puzzle 6 of business they have no time to tend their health either 
of body or mind. Illi mors gravis incubat, qui notus nimis omnibus, 
ignotus moritur sibi. 7 In place there is license to do good or evil, 
whereof the latter is a curse ; for in evil the best condition is not to 
will, 8 the second not to can. 9 But power to do good is the true and 
lawful end of aspiring; for good thoughts, though God accept them, 
yet towards men are little better than good dreams, except they be put 
in act ; and that cannot be without power and place, as the vantage 
and commanding ground. Merit and good works is the end of man's 
motion, and conscience IO of the same is the accomplishment of man's 
rest; for if a man can be partaker of God's theatre, 11 he shall likewise 
be partaker of God's rest : Et conversus Deus id aspiceret opera, quce 
fecerunt manits suce, vidit quod omnia essent bona nimis ; I2 and then 
the Sabbath. 

In the discharge of thy place set before thee the best examples, for 
imitation is a globe I3 of precepts ; and after a time set before thee thine 
own example, and examine thyself strictly whether thou didst not best 



392 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

at first. Neglect not, also, the examples of those that have carried 
themselves ill in the same place ; not to set off thyself by taxing their 
memory, but to direct thyself what to avoid. Reform, therefore, with- 
out bravery H or scandal of former times and persons ; but yet set it 
down to thyself, as well to create good precedents as to follow them. 
Reduce things to the first institution, and observe wherein and how 
they have degenerated; but yet ask counsel of both times, — of the 
ancient time what is best, and of the later time what is fittest. Seek 
to make thy course regular, that men may know beforehand what they 
may expect ; but be not too positive and peremptory ; and express 
thyself well when thou digressest from thy rule. Preserve the right of 
thy place, but stir not questions of jurisdiction ; and rather assume 
thy right in silence, and de facto, 15 than voice 16 it with claims and 
challenges. Preserve likewise the rights of inferior places ; and think 
it more honour to direct in chief than to be busy in all. Embrace and 
invite helps and advices touching the execution of thy place ; and do 
not drive away such as bring thee information as meddlers, but accept 
of them in good part. 

The vices of authority are chiefly four, — delays, corruption, rough- 
ness, and facility. 17 For delays, give easy access; keep times ap- 
pointed ; go through with that which is in hand, and interlace not 
business but of necessity. For corruption, do not only bind thine own 
hands or thy servants* hands from taking, but bind the hands of suitors 
also from offering ; for integrity used doth the one, but integrity pro- 
fessed, and with a manifest detestation of bribery, doth the other ; and 
avoid not only the fault, but the suspicion. Whosoever is found vari- 
able, and changeth manifestly without manifest cause, giveth suspicion 
of corruption : therefore always, when thou changest thine opinion or 
course, profess it plainly, and declare it, together with the reasons that 
move thee to change, and do not think to steal it. lS A servant or a 
favourite, if he be inward, 19 and no other apparent cause of esteem, is 
commonly thought but a by-way to close 20 corruption. For rough- 
ness, it is a needless cause of discontent : severity breedeth fear, but 
roughness breedeth hate. Even reproofs from authority ought to be 
grave, and not taunting. As for facility, it is worse than bribery ; for 
bribes come but now and then; but if importunity or idle respects 21 
lead a man, he shall never be without ; as Solomon saith, " To respect 
persons is not good ; for such a man will transgress for a piece of 
bread. 11 

It is most true that was anciently spoken, — "A place showeth the 



BACON'S ESSAYS. 393 

man ; " and it showeth some to the better and some to the worse. 
Omnium consensu capax imperii, nisi imperasset 22 saith Tacitus of 
Galba ; but of Vespasian he saith, Solus imperantinm, Vespasianus 
mutatus in melius; 21 though the one was meant of sufficiency, the 
other of manners and affection. It is an assured sign of a worthy and 
generous spirit, whom honour amends ; for honour is, or should be, 
the place of virtue ; and as in Nature things move violently to their 
place, and calmly in their place, so virtue in ambition is violent, in 
authority settled and calm. All rising to great place is by a winding 
stair; and if there be factions, it is good to side 24 a man's self whilst 
he is in the rising, and to balance himself when he is placed. Use the 
memory of thy predecessor fairly and tenderly ; for, if thou dost not, 
it is a debt will sure be paid when thou art gone. If thou have col- 
leagues, respect them ; and rather call them when they look not for it, 
than exclude them when they have reason to look to be called. Be 
not too sensible or too remembering of thy place in conversation and 
private answers to suitors ; but let it rather be said " When he sits in 
place, he is another man." 

OF SEEMING WISE. 

It hath been an opinion, that the French are wiser than they seem, 
and the Spaniards seem wiser than they are ; but, howsoever it be be- 
tween nations, certainly it is so between man and man ; for, as the 
apostle saith of godliness, " Having a show of godliness, but denying 
the power thereof; " T so certainly there are, in points of wisdom and 
sufficiency, 2 that do nothing or little very solemnly; magno conatu 
migas. 1 It is a ridiculous thing, and fit for a satire, to persons of 
judgment, to see what shifts these formalists have, and what prospec- 
tives 4 to make superficies to seem body, that hath depth and bulk. 
Some are so close and reserved, as 5 they will not show their wares but 
by a dark light, and seem always to keep back somewhat ; and when 
they know within themselves they speak of that they do not well 
know, would nevertheless seem to others to know of that which they 
may not well speak. Some help themselves with countenance and 
gesture, and are wise by signs ; as Cicero saith of Piso, that when he 
answered him he fetched one of his brows up to his forehead, and 
bent the other down to his chin ; Respondes, altero ad frontem sublalo, 
altero ad mentum depresso supercilio, crtidelitalem tibi non placere. 6 
Some think to bear 7 it by speaking a great word, and being peremp- 



394 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

tory; and go on, and take by admittance that which they cannot make 
good. Some, whatsoever is beyond their reach, will seem to despise, 
or make light of it, as impertinent or curious ; 8 and so would have 
their ignorance seem judgment. Some are never without a difference, 9 
and commonly, by amusing men with a subtilty, blanch IO the matter ; 
of whom A. Gellius saith, Hominem delirum, qui verborum minutiis 
rerum frangit ponder a" Of which kind also Plato, in his Protagoras, 
bringeth in Prodicus in scorn, and maketh him make a speech that 
consisteth of distinctions from the beginning to the end. Generally, 
such men, in all deliberations, find ease to be of the negative side, and 
affect a credit to object and foretell difficulties ; for, when propositions 
are denied, there is an end of them ; but if they be allowed, it requi- 
reth a new work ; which false point of wisdom is the bane of business. 
To conclude, there is no decaying merchant, or inward beggar, 12 hath 
so many tricks to uphold the credit of their wealth as these empty 
persons have to maintain the credit of their sufficiency, Seeming 
wise men may make shift to get opinion ; but let no man choose them 
for employment ; for, certainly, you were better take for business a 
man somewhat absurd than over-formal. 



OF DISCOURSE. 

Some in their discourse desire rather commendation of wit, in be- 
ing able to hold all arguments, than of judgment, in discerning what is 
true ; as if it were a praise to know what might be said, and not what 
should be thought. Some have certain commonplaces and themes 
wherein they are good, and want variety ; which kind of poverty is for 
the most part tedious, and, when it is once perceived, ridiculous. 
The honourablest part of talk is to give the occasion ; and again to 
moderate and pass to somewhat else ; for then a man leads the dance. 
It is good in discourse, and speech of conversation, to vary, and inter- 
mingle speech of the present occasion with arguments, tales with 
reasons, asking of questions with telling of opinions, and jest with 
earnest ; for it is a dull thing to tire, and, as we say now, to jade any 
thing too far. As for jest, there be certain things which ought to be 
privileged from it, namely, religion, matters of State, great persons, 
any man's present business of importance, and any case that deserveth 
pity ; yet there be some that think their wits have been asleep, except 
they dart out somewhat that is piquant, and to the quick. That is a 



BACON'S ESSAYS. 395 

vein which would be bridled : Parce, finer, stimulis, et fortius tit ere 
torts. 1 And, generally, men ought to find the difference between salt- 
ness and bitterness. Certainly, he that hath a satirical vein, as he 
maketh others afraid of his wit, so he had need be afraid of others' 
memory. He that questioneth much shall learn much, and content 
much, but especially if he apply his questions to the skill of the per- 
sons whom he asketh ; for he shall give them occasion to please them- 
selves in speaking, and himself shall continually gather knowledge : 
but let his questions not be troublesome, for that is fit for a poser ; 2 
and let him be sure to leave other men their turns to speak : nay, if 
there be any that would reign and take up all the time, let him find 
means to take them off, and to bring others on, as musicians use to do 
with those that dance too long galliards. 3 If you dissemble some- 
times your knowledge of that 4 you are thought to know, you shall 
be thought, another time, to know that you know not. Speech of a 
man's self ought to be seldom, and well chosen. I knew one was 
wont to say in scorn, " He must needs be a wise man, he speaks so 
much of himself: 1 ' and there is but one case wherein a man may 
commend himself with good grace, and that is in commending virtue 
in another, especially if it be such a virtue whereunto himself pretend- 
eth. Speech of touch 5 toward others should be sparingly used; for 
discourse ought to be as a field, without coming home to any man. 1 
knew two noblemen, of the west part of England, whereof the one 
was given to scoff, but kept ever royal cheer in his house ; the other 
would ask of those that had been at the other's table, "Tell truly, was 
there never a flout or dry blow 6 given?" To which the guest would 
answer, " Such and such a thing passed." The lord would say, " I 
thought he would mar a good dinner." Discretion of speech is more 
than eloquence ; and to speak agreeably 7 to him with whom we deal, 
is more than to speak in good words, or in good order. A good con- 
tinued speech, without a good speech of interlocution, shows slow- 
ness ; and a good reply, or second speech, without a good settled 
speech, showeth shallowness and weakness. As we see in beasts, that 
those that are weakest in the course, are yet nimblest in the turn ; as 
it is betwixt the greyhound and the hare. To use too many circum- 
stances, 8 ere one come to the matter, is wearisome ; to use none at all, 
is blunt. 



396 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO BACON'S ESSAYS. 

OF TRUTH. 

1. See John xviii. 38. " Pilate saith unto him, What is truth? " 

2. This was hardly the attitude of the Roman governor. " Any one of 
Bacon's acuteness, or a quarter of it," says Whately, "might easily have 
perceived, had he. at all attended to the context of the narrative, that never 
was any one less in & jesting mood than Pilate on this occasion." 

3. That. — The antecedent is omitted; insert persons ox people after 
"be." 

4. Giddiness = unsteadiness; want of certainty or of fixed beliefs. 

5. Affecting — aiming at; from Lat. ad, to, and facere, to do, act. 

6. Philosophers of that kind. — A reference probably to Pyrrho and 
Carneades. Pyrrho, a Greek philosopher of the third century B.C., main- 
tained that certainty could not be attained in anything; hence he is known 
as the founder of scepticism. Carneades, a philosopher at Cyrene in Africa 
the second century B.C., held that all the knowledge the human mind is capa- 
ble of attaining is not science but opinion. 

7. Discoursing = discursive, rambling; from Lat. dis, apart, and cur- 
rere, to run. 

8. Imposeth = layeth restraints upon; from Lat. in, on, upon, and 
ponere, to place. 

9. At a stand = perplexed. 

10. Bacon does not make a distinction between fiction and falsehood. 
Poetry is opposed, not to truth, but to fact. 

11. Daintily = elegantly. 

12. Price = value. O. Fr. pris, Lat. pretium, price. 

13. Carbuncle = a gem of a deep red color. Lat. carbo, a live coal. 

14. Fathers. —This name is applied to the leading ecclesiastical writers 
of the first five or six centuries after Christ. 

15. Vinum dcemonum = the wine of demons. This quotation is from 
Augustine, the greatest of the Latin fathers, who was born in Numidia in 354. 

16. Howsoever = although. 

17. Creature = created thing. 



NOTES TO BACON'S ESSAYS. 397 

18. Chaos = the original unorganized condition of matter, out of which 
it was believed the universe was created. 

19. Sect = the followers of Epicurus, a Greek philosopher of the fourth 
century B.C., who held that pleasure is the highest good. Though his life was 
blameless, his followers made his philosophy a cloak for luxury and licentious- 
ness. The poet referred to is Lucretius, a Latin author of the first century 
B.C., whose poem De Rerum Natura is largely devoted to an exposition 
of the Epicurean philosophy. 

20. Adventures = fortunes, chances. 

21. Commanded = overlooked from some higher hill. 

22. So = provided. 

23. Prospect = view, survey. Lat. pro, before, and specere, to look. 

24. Round = fair, candid, plain. 

25. Alloy = a baser metal mixed with a finer. O. Fr. a loi, according 
to law, used with reference to the mixing of metals in coinage. 

26. Embaseth = debaseth. 

27. Montaigne, a celebrated French essayist of the sixteenth century. 
He died in 1592. 

OF REVENGE. 

1. Prov. xix. II. " The discretion of a man deferreth his anger; and 
it is his glory to pass over a transgression." 

2. Irrevocable = cannot be recalled. Lat. ir (for in), not, re, back, 
and vocare, to call. 

3. Cosmo de Medici, born 1 5 19, was chief of the Florentine republic. 
He "possessed the astuteness of character, the love of elegance, and taste 
for literature, but not the frank and generous spirit, that had distinguished his 
great ancestors." 

4. Desperate = exceedingly severe. 

5. Neglecting = negligent, neglectful. 

6. Job ii. 10. The Authorized Version is slightly different. 

7. Public revenges = punishments inflicted upon persons guilty of some 
crime against the state. 

8. Julius Caesar, the leading general, statesman, and orator (excepting 
Cicero) of his time, was assassinated in the year 44 B.C. Not one of his 
assassins, it is said, died a natural death. 

9. Pertinax, born 126 A.D., was made emperor of Rome by the assassins 
of his predecessor, Commodus. After a reign of eighty-six days he was put 
to death by the soldiers, who objected to the reforms he proposed to introduce 
in the army. 

10. Henry III. of France was assassinated in 1589 by Jacques Clement, 



398 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

a fanatical Dominican friar, who was himself slain on the spot by the royal 
guard. 

II. Witches were supposed to be women who had entered into a com- 
pact with the devil, by whose aid they were enabled to perform extraordinary 
feats, but into whose power they passed entirely at death. "So end they 
unfortunate." 

OF ADVERSITY. 

1. Stoics = followers of Zeno, who taught that men should be free from 
passion, unmoved by joy or grief, and submit without complaint to the un- 
avoidable necessity by which all things seem to be governed. 

2. Transcendencies = exaggerations. 

3. Mystery = secret meaning. 

4. Hercules, the most celebrated of the Grecian heroes, was the ideal 
of human perfection as conceived in the heroic age. With high qualities of 
mind he possessed extraordinary physical strength, which was shown in his 
"twelve labors." Among his other wonderful achievements he released 
Prometheus, who, for having stolen fire from heaven for mortals, had been 
chained by Jupiter's command to the rocks of Mount Caucasus. 

5. In a mean = with moderation. 

6. Hearse-like airs = funereal tunes. 

7. Incensed = set on fire. Lat. in, in, upon, and candere, to burn, to 
glow. 

OF MARRIAGE AND SINGLE LIFE. 

1. Impediments = hindrances. Lat. in, and pes, pedis, foot. Fre- 
quently used, in the original, to denote baggage, especially of armies. 

2. Which = who. Which was formerly used for persons as well as for 
things. "Our Father which art in heaven." Matt. vi. 9. 

3. Impertinences = things irrelevant. This is the original sense. Lat. 
in, not, and pertinere, to pertain to. 

4. Charges = cost, expense. 

5. Because = in order that, on this account that. Cf. Matt. xx. 31. 
"And the multitude rebuked them, because they should hold their peace." 

6. Charge = load or burden. Fr. charge, load, burden; Lat. carrus, 
car, wagon. Cf. cargo and caricature. 

7. Humorous = governed by humor or caprice. 

8. Churchman = an ecclesiastic or clergyman. 

9. Fill a pool = bear the expenses of a family. 

10. Hortatives= exhortations. Lat. horlari, to excite, exhort. 

11. Exhaust = drained, exhausted. Lat. ex, out of, and haurire, to 
draw, the past part, being exhaustum. 



NOTES TO BACON'S ESSAYS. 



390 



12. "He preferred his aged wife to immortality." Ulysses was ship- 
wrecked on the coast of Ogygia, the island home of the goddess Calypso. 
She detained him eight years, and proposed to confer immortality upon him. 
But with beautiful fidelity the Grecian hero preferred to return to his native 
Ithaca and his wife Penelope. 

13. So as = so that. In Bacon as is frequently used in the sense of that. 

14. Quarrel '== cause, reason, excuse. Formerly a not infrequent mean- 
ing. O. Fr. querele ; Lat. querela, a complaint, from queri, to complain. 

OF GREAT PLACE. 

1. So as = so that. See note 13 of the preceding Essay. 

2. Indignities— basenesses, meannessess. Lat. in, not, and dignus, 
worthy. 

3. " Since thou art no longer what thou wast, there is no reason why 
thou shouldst wish to live." 

4. Reason = right, reasonable. O. Fr. raison, from Lat. rationem, 
reason. 

5. Shadow = retirement. 

6. Puzzle = perplexity. 

7. " Death presses heavily upon him who, too well known to all 
others, dies unknown to himself." 

8. To will= to be willing, to desire. Cf. John vii. 17. " If any man 
will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God." 

9. To can = to be able. 

10. Conscience = consciousness. This is an old meaning. Lat. con, 
together with, and scire, to know. 

11. Theatre = sphere or scheme of operation. An unusual and obsolete 
meaning. 

12. "And God turned to behold the works which his hands had made, 
and he saw that everything was very good." Gen. i. 31. 

13. Globe = body, circle. 

14. Bravery = bravado. Used in this sense also by Milton and Shake- 
speare. 

15. De facto = in fact. 

16. Voice = announce, declare. 

17. Facility = readiness of compliance, pliability. 

18. Steal it = do it secretly. So in Shakespeare : " 'Twere good, me- 
thinks, to steal our marriage." 

19. Inward— intimate. So Job xix. 19. "All my inward friends 
abhorred me." 

20. Close = hidden or secret. 



4°° ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

21. Respects = considerations, motives 

22. " One whom all would have considered fit for rule, if he had not 
ruled." 

23. "Alone of all the emperors, Vespasian was changed for the better." 

24. To side = to lean to one side. 

OF SEEMING WISE. 

1. 2 Tim. iii. 5. 

2. Sufficiency = ability, full power. So 2 Cor. iii. 5. " Our sufficiency 
is of God." 

3. "Trifles with great effort." 

4. Prospectives = perspective glasses. They make things appear differ- 
ent from what they are. 

5. As = that, as often in Bacon. 

6. " With one brow raised to your forehead, the other bent downward 
to your chin, you answer that cruelty does not please you." 

7. To bear = to gain or win. 

8. Impertinent = irrelevant. — Curious = over-nice. 

9. Difference = subtle distinction. 

10. Blanch = avoid, evade. 

11. "A foolish man who fritters away matters by trifling with words." 

12. Inward beggar = a man secretly insolvent. 

OF DISCOURSE. 

1. " Boy, spare the spur, and hold the reins more lightly." Ovid. 

2. Poser = a close examiner. Fr. poser, to put a question. 

3. Galliards = a gay, lively dance, much in fashion in Bacon's time. 

4. T/iat = what, that which. Frequently so used. Cf. John iii. II. 
" We speak that we do know." 

5. Speech of touch = speech of particular application, personal hits. 

6. Dry blow = sarcastic remark. 

7. Agreeably = in a manner suited to. 

8. Circumstances = unimportant particulars. Lat. circum, around, 
and stare, to stand. 

OF RICHES. 

1. Impedi?nenta = baggage, especially of an army. See notes on " Of 
Marriage and Single Life." 

2. Riches. — This noun is really singular, though commonly used in the 
plural. Fr. richesse. 

3. Disturbeth = interferes with. Lat. dis, apart, and turbarc, to 
trouble; from turba, disorder, tumult. 



III. 

SHAKESPEARE'S MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

The Duke of Venice. Old Gobbo, father to Launcelot. 

The Prince of Morocco, \ suitors to Leonardo, servant to Bassanio. 

The Prince of Arragon, ] Portia. Balthasar, j servants to Portia> 

Antonio, a merchant of Venice. Stephano, j 

Bassanio, his kinsman, suitor likewise to 

p . . Portia, a rich heiress. 

S alarino, > Nerissa her waiting-maid 

Salanio, I friends to Antonio and JessiCA ' ^S^r to Shylock. 

Gratiano, J Bassanio. Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court 

Salerio, of j ust i ce> Gaoler, Servants to Portia, 

Lorenzo, in love with Jessica. and Qther Attendants . 
Shylock, a rich Jew. 

Tubal, a Jew, his friend. Scene : Partly at Venice, and partly at 

Launcelot Gobbo, the clown, servant to Belmont, the seat of Portia, on the 

Shylock. Continent. 

ACT I. 

Scene I. Venice. A street. 

Enter Antonio, S alarino, and Salanio. 

Antonio. In sooth, 1 I know not why I am so sad : 
It wearies me ; you say it wearies you ; 
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, 
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, 
I am to learn ; 

And such a want-wit 2 sadness makes of me 
That I have much ado 3 to know myself. 

Salarino. Your mind is tossing on the ocean ; 
There, where your argosies 4 with portly sail, 
Like signiors 5 and rich burghers on the flood, 
Or, as it were, the pageants 6 of the sea, 
Do overpeer 7 the petty traffickers, 
That curtsy to them, do them reverence, 
As they fly by them with their woven wings. 

Salanio. Believe me, sir, had I such venture 8 forth, 
The better part of my affections would 
Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still 9 
Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind, 
401 



4 02 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Peering in maps for ports and piers and roads ; IO 
And every object that might make me fear 
Misfortune to my ventures out of doubt 
Would make me sad. 

Salarino. My wind cooling my broth 

Would blow me to an ague, when I thought 
What harm a wind too great at sea might do. 
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, 
But I should think of shallows and of flats, 
And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand, 11 
Vailing I2 her high-top lower than her ribs 
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church 
And see the holy edifice of stone, 
And not bethink me straight I3 of dangerous rocks, 
Which touching but my gentle vessel's side, 
Would scatter all her spices on the stream, 
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, 
And, in a word, but even now worth this, 14 
And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought 
To think on this, and shall I lack the thought 
That such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad ? 
But tell not me ; I know, Antonio 
Is sad to think upon his merchandise. 

Antonio. Believe me, no : I thank my fortune for it, 
My ventures are not in one bottom I5 trusted, 
Nor to one place ; nor is my whole estate 
Upon the fortune of this present year : 
Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. 

Salarino. Why, then you are in love. 

Antonio. Fie, fie! 

Salarino. Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad, 
Because you are not merry : and 'twere as easy 
For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry, 
Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, 16 
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time : 
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes 1? 
And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper, 
And other l8 of such vinegar aspect 
That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile, 
Though Nestor ig swear the jest be laughable. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 403 



Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano. 

Salanio. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, 
Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well : 
We leave you now with better company. 

Salarino. I would have stay'd till I had made you merry, 
If worthier friends had not prevented 2 ° me. 

Antonio. Your worth is very dear in my regard. 
I take it, your own business calls on you 
And you embrace the occasion to depart. 

Salarino. Good morrow, my good lords. 

Bassanio. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when ? 
You grow exceeding strange : 2I must it be so? 

Salarino. Well make our leisures to attend on yours. 

[Exeunt Salarino and Salanio. 

Lorenzo. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, 
We two will leave you : but at dinner-time, 
I pray you, have in mind where we must meet. 

Bassanio. I will not fail you. 

Gratiano. You look not well, Signior Antonio; 
You have too much respect upon 22 the world : 
They lose it that do buy it with much care : 
Believe me, you are marvellously changed. 

Antonio. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano: 
A stage where every man must play a part, 
And mine a sad oue. 

Gratiano. Let me play the fool : 23 

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, 
And let my liver rather heat with wine 
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. 
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, 
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? 
Sleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundice 
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio — 
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks — 
There are a sort of men whose visages 
Do cream and mantle 24 like a standing pond, 
And do 25 a wilful stillness entertain, 
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion 26 
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, 27 



404 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

As who should say 28 " I am Sir Oracle, 
And when I ope my lips let no dog bark ! " 

my Antonio, 1 do know of these 
That therefore only are reputed wise 
For saying nothing, who, 1 am very sure, 

If they should speak, would almost damn those ears 

Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. 29 

ril tell thee more of this another time : 

But fish not, with this melancholy bait, 

For this fool gudgeon, 30 this opinion. 

Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile : 

I'll end my exhortation after dinner. 

Lorenzo. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time : 

1 must be one of these same dumb wise men, 
For Gratiano never lets me speak. 

Gratiano. Well, keep me company but two years moe, 31 
Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. 

Antonio. Farewell : I'll grow a talker for this gear. 32 

Gratiano. Thanks, i 1 faith, for silence is only commendable 
In a neat's tongue dried. [Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo. 

Antonio. Is that any thing now? 

Bassanio. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more 
than 'any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of 
wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you 
find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the 
search. 

Antonio. Well, tell me now what lady is the same 
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, 
That you to-day promised to tell me of? 

Bassanio. 'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, 
How much I have disabled mine estate, 
By something 33 showing a more swelling port 34 
Than my faint means would grant continuance : 
Nor do I now make moan to be abridged 
From such a noble rate ; 35 but my chief care 
Is to come fairly off from the great debts 
Wherein my time something too prodigal 
Hath left me gag'd. 36 To you, Antonio, 
I owe the most, in money and in love, 
And from your love I have a warranty 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 405 

To unburden all my plots and purposes 
How to get clear of all the debts I owe. 

Antonio. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it ; 
And if it stand, as you yourself still 37 do, 
Within the eye of honour, 38 be assured, 
My purse, my person, my extremest means, 
Lie all unlocked to your occasions. 

Bassanio. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft 
I shot his fellow of the self-same flight 39 
The self-same way, with more advised 40 watch, 
To find the other forth, 41 and by adventuring both 
I oft found both : I urge this childhood proof, 42 
Because what follows is pure innocence. 
I owe you much, and like a wilful 43 youth, 
That which I owe is lost ; but if you please 
To shoot another arrow that self way 44 
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, 
As I will watch the aim, or to find both 
Or bring your latter hazard back again 
And thankfully rest debtor for the first. 

Antonio. You know me well, and herein spend but time 
To wind about my love with circumstance ; 45 
And out of doubt you do me now more wrong 
In making question of my uttermost 46 
Than if you had made waste of all I have : 
Then do but say to me what I should do 
That in your knowledge may by me be done, 
And I am prest 47 unto it: therefore speak. 

Bassanio. In Belmont is a lady richly left ; 48 
And she is fair and, fairer than that word, 
Of wondrous virtues : sometimes 4 ° from her eyes 
I did receive fair speechless messages : 
Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued 5 ° 
To Cato's daughter, Brutus 1 Portia : 5I 
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, 
For the four winds blow in from every coast 
Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks 
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece ; 
Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos 1 strand, 52 
And many Jasons come in quest of her. 



406 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

my Antonio, had I but the means 

To hold a rival place with one of them, 53 

1 have a mind presages me such thrift, 54 
That I should questionless be fortunate ! 

Antonio. Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea; 
Neither have I money nor commodity 55 
To raise a present sum : therefore go forth ; 
Try what my credit can in Venice do ; 
That shall be racked, even to the uttermost, 
To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia. 
Go, presently s6 inquire, and so will I, 
Where money is, and I no question make 
To have it of my trust or for my sake. 57 \Exeunt. 

Scene II. Belmont. A room in Portia's house. 
Enter Portia and Nerissa. 

Portia. By my troth, 1 Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this 
great world. 

Nerissa. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in 
the same abundance as your good fortunes are : and yet, for aught I 
see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with 
nothing. It is no mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the mean : 
superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. 

Portia. Good sentences and well pronounced. 

Nerissa. They would be better, if well followed. 

Portia. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, 
chapels had been churches and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. 
It is a good divine that follows his own instructions : I can easier teach 
twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to 
follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, 
but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree : such a hare is madness the 
youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this 
reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the 
word " choose ! " I may neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom 
I dislike ; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a 
dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one nor 
refuse none ? 2 

Nerissa. Your father was ever virtuous : and holy men at their 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 407 

death have good inspirations : therefore the lottery, that he hath de- 
vised in these three chests of gold, silver and lead, whereof who 
chooses his meaning chooses you, will, no doubt, never be chosen by 
any rightly but one who shall rightly love. But what warmth is there 
in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already 
come ? 

Portia. I pray thee, over-name them ; and as thou namest them, 
I will describe them; and, according to my description, level at 3 my 
affection. 

Nerissa. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. 

Portia. Ay, that's a colt 4 indeed, for he doth nothing but talk 
of his horse ; and he makes it a great appropriation s to his own good 
parts, that he can shoe him himself. 

Nerissa. Then there is the County Palatine. 6 

Portia. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say " If you 
will not have me, choose : " he hears merry tales and smiles not : I 
fear he will prove the weeping philosopher 7 when he grows old, being 
so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married 
to a death's head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. 
God defend me from these two ! 

Nerissa. How say you by 8 the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon ? 

Portia. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In 
truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker : but, he ! why, he hath a horse 
better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than the 
Count Palatine ; he is every man in no man ; if a throstle sing, he falls 
straight a capering ; he will fence with his own shadow : if I should 
marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, 
I would forgive him, for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite 
him. 

Nerissa. What say you then to Falconbridge, the young baron 
of England ? 

Portia. You know I say nothing to 9 him, for he understands 
not me, nor I him : he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you 
will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in 
the English. He is a proper 10 man's picture, but, alas, who can con- 
verse with a dumbshow? How oddly he is suited! 11 I think he 
bought his doublet I2 in Italy, his round hose I3 in France, his bonnet I4 
in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere. 

Nerissa. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour? 

Portia. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he bor- 



4 o8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

rowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay 
him again when he was able : I think the Frenchman became his surety 
and sealed under I5 for another. 

Nerissa. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's 
nephew ? 

Portia. Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober, and most 
vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk : when he is best he is a little 
worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast : 
an l6 the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go with- 
out him. 

Nerissa. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right 
casket, you should I? refuse to perform your father's will, if you should 
refuse to accept him. 

Portia. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a deep 
glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary lS casket, for if the devil be 
within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will 
do any thing, Nerissa, ere Til be married to a sponge. 

Nerissa. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords : 
they have acquainted me with their determinations ; which is indeed 
to return to their home and to trouble you with no more suit, unless 
you may be won by some other sort I9 than your fathers imposition 20 
depending on the caskets. 

Portia. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, 21 I will die as chaste as 
Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I am 
glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable, for there is not one among 
them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant them a 
fair departure. 

Nerissa. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a 
Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the 
Marquis of Montferrat? 

Portia. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio ; as I think, he was so called. 

Nerissa. True, madam : he, of all the men that ever my foolish 
eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. 

Portia. 1 remember him well, and I remember him worthy oi 
thy praise. 

Enter a Serving-man. 
How now ! what news? 

Servant. The four 22 strangers seek for you, madam, to take their 
leave : and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Mo- 
rocco, who brings word the prince his master will be here to-night. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 409 

Portia. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good a heart as 
I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach : if 
he have the condition 23 of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had 
rather he should shrive 24 me than wive me. 
Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. 

Whiles we shut the gates upon one wooer, another knocks at the door. 

\_Exeu7it. 
Scene III. Venice. A public place. 

Enter Bassanio and Shylock. 

Shylock. Three thousand ducats ; ' well. 

Bassanio. Ay, sir, for three months. 

Shylock. For three months ; well. 

Bassanio. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound. 

Shylock. Antonio shall become bound ; well. 

Bassanio. May you stead 2 me? will you pleasure me? shall I 
know your answer? 

Shylock. Three thousand ducats, for three months, and Antonio 
bound. 

Bassanio. Your answer to that. 

Shylock. Antonio is a good man. 3 

Bassanio. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary? 

Shylock. Oh, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying he is a 
good man is to have you understand me that he is sufficient. Yet his 
means are in supposition : 4 he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, 
another to the Indies ; I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, 5 he 
hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures he 
hath, squandered 6 abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but 
men : there be land-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and land- 
thieves, I mean pirates, and then there is the peril of waters, winds 
and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand 
ducats ; I think I may take his bond. 

Bassanio. Be assured you may. 

Shylock. I will be assured I may ; and, that I may be assured, 
I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio? 

Bassanio. If it please you to dine with us. 

Shylock. Yes, to smell pork ; to eat of the habitation which your 
prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into. 7 I will buy with you, 
sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following, but I 



4io ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news 
on the Rialto ? Who is he comes here? 

Enter Antonio. 

Bassanio. This is Signior Antonio. 

Shylock. [Aside] How like a fawning publican he looks ! 
I hate him for he is a Christian, 
But more for that in low simplicity 
He lends out money gratis and brings down 
The rate of usance 8 here with us in Venice. 
If I can catch him once upon the hip, 9 
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 
He hates our sacred nation, and he rails, 
Even there where merchants most do congregate, 
On me, my bargains and my well-won thrift, 
Which he calls interest. 10 Cursed be my tribe, 
If I forgive him. 

Bassanio. Shylock, do you hear ? 

Shylock. I am debating of my present store, 
And, by the near guess of my memory, 
I cannot instantly raise up the gross 
Of full three thousand ducats. What of that? 
Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, 
Will furnish me. But soft ! how many months 
Do you desire? [To Antonio.] Rest you fair, 11 good signior; 
Your worship was the last man in our mouths. 

Antonio. Shylock, although I neither lend nor borrow 
By taking nor by giving of excess, 12 
Yet to supply the ripe wants I3 of my friend, 
I'll break a custom. Is he yet possess'd 14 
How much ye would ? 

Shylock. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats. 

Antonio. And for three months. 

Shylock. I had forgot ; three months ; you told me so. 
Well then, your bond ; and let me see ; but hear you ; 
Methought I5 you said you neither lend nor borrow 
Upon advantage. 

Antonio. I do never use it. 

Shylock. When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban's sheep — 
This Jacob from our holy Abram was, 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 4* I 

As his wise mother wrought in his behalf, 
The third possessor; ay, he was the third l6 — 

Antonio. And what of him? did he take interest? 

Shylock. No, not take interest, not, as you would say, 
Directly interest : mark what Jacob did 
When Laban and himself were compromised I7 
That all the eanlings lS which were streak'd and pied 
Should fall as Jacob's hire. 19 
This was a way to thrive, and he was blest : 
And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not. 

Antonio. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob served for; 
A thing not in his power to bring to pass, 
But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven. 
Was this inserted 20 to make interest good? 
Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams ? 

Shylock, I cannot tell ; I make it breed as fast : 
But note me, signior. 

Antonio. Mark you this, Bassanio, 21 
The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. 
An evil soul producing holy witness 
Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, 
A goodly apple rotten at the heart ; 
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath ! 

Shylock. Three thousand ducats ; His a good round sum. 
Three months from twelve ; then, let me see ; the rate — 

Antonio. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding 22 to you ? 

Shylock. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft 
In the Rialto you have rated me 
About my moneys and my usances : 
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, 
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. 
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, 
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, 23 
And all for use of that which is mine own. 
Well then, it now appears you need my help : 
Go to, 24 then ; you come to me, and you say, 
" Shylock, we would have moneys : " you say so ; 
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard 
And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur 
Over your threshold : moneys is your suit. 



412 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

What should I say to you? Should I not say 

" Hath a dog money? is it possible 

A cur can lend three thousand ducats? " Or 

Shall I bend low and in a bondman's key, 

With bated breath and whispering humbleness, 

Say this ; 

" Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last; 

You spurn'd me such a day ; another time 

You calPd me dog ; and for these courtesies 

I'll lend you thus much moneys? " 

Antonio. I am as like to call thee so again, 
To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. 
If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not 
As to thy friends ; for when did friendship take 
A breed 25 for barren metal of his friend? 
But lend it rather to thine enemy, 
Who 2D if he break, thou mayst with better face 
Exact the penalty. 

Shylock. Why, look you, how you storm! 

I would be friends with you and have your love, 
Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with, 
Supply your present wants and take no doit 27 
Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me: 
This is kind I offer. 

Bassanio. This were kindness. 

Shylock. This kindness will I show. 

Go with me to a notary, seal me there 
Your single bond ; and, in a merry sport, 
If you repay me not on such a day, 
In such a place, such sum or sums as are 
Express'd in the condition, 28 let the forfeit 
Be nominated for an equal 2Q pound 
Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken 
In what part of your body pleaseth me. 

Antonio. Content, i' faith : I'll seal to such a bond 
And say there is much kindness in the Jew. 

Bassanio. You shall not seal to such a bond for me : 
I'll rather dwell 30 in my necessity. 

Antonio. Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it: 
Within these two months, that's a month before 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 4^3 

This bond expires, I do expect return 

Of thrice three times the value of this bond. 

Shylock. O father Abram, what these Christians are, 
Whose own hard dealings teaches 31 them suspect 
The thoughts of others ! Pray you, tell me this ; 
If he should break his day, 32 what should I gain 
By the exaction of the forfeiture ? 
A pound of man's flesh taken from a man 
Is not so estimable, profitable neither, 
As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, 
To buy his favour, I extend this friendship : 
If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu ; 
And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not. 

Antonio. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. 

Shylock. Then meet me forthwith at the notary's ; 
Give him direction for this merry bond, 
And I will go and purse the ducats straight, 
See to my house, left in the fearful guard 33 
Of an unthrifty knave, and presently 
I will be with you. 

Antonio. Hie 34 thee, gentle Jew. [Exit Shylock. 

The Hebrew will turn Christian : he grows kind. 

Bassanio. I like not fair terms and a villain's mind. 

Antonio. Come on : in this there can be no dismay ; 
My ships come home a month before the day. [Exeunt. 

ACT II. 

Scene I. Belmont. A room in Portia's house. 

Flourish of Cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco and his train ; 
Portia, Nerissa, and others attending. 

Morocco. Mislike * me not for my complexion, 
The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun, 
To whom I am a neighbour and near bred. 
Bring me the fairest creature northward born, 
Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles, 
And let us make incision for your love, 
To prove whose blood is reddest, 2 his or mine. 



414 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine 

Hath fear'd 3 the valiant : by my love, I swear 

The best-regarded 4 virgins of our clime 

Have loved it too : I would not change this hue, 

Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. 

Portia. In terms of choice I am not solely led 
By nice 5 direction of a maiden's eyes ; 
Besides, the lottery of my destiny 
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing : 
But if my father had not scanted 6 me, 
And hedged me by his wit, 7 to yield myself 
His wife who wins me by that means I told you, 
Yourself, renowned prince, then stood 8 as fair 
As any comer I have look'd on yet 
For my affection. 

Morocco. Even for that I thank you : 
Therefore, 1 pray you, lead me to the caskets 
To try my fortune. By this scimitar, 
That slew the Sophy 9 and a Persian prince 
That won three fields of Sultan Solyman, 10 
I would outstare the sternest eyes that look, 
Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, 
Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, 
Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, 
To win thee, lady. But, alas the while ! 
If Hercules and Lichas " play at dice 
Which is the better man, the greater throw 
May turn by fortune from the weaker hand : 
So is Alcides I2 beaten by his page ; 
And so may I, blind fortune leading me, 
Miss that which one unworthier may attain, 
And die with grieving. 

Portia. You must take your chance, 

And either not attempt to choose at all 
Or swear, before you choose, if you choose wrong 
Never to speak to lady afterward 
In way of marriage : therefore be advised. 13 

MOROCCO. Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance. 

Portia. First, forward to the temple : M after dinner 
Your hazard shall be made. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 41 5 

Morocco. Good fortune then ! 

To make me blest or cursed'st among men. [Cornets, and exeunt. 

Scene II. Venice. A street. 

Enter Launcelot. 

Launcelot. Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from 
this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, say- 
ing to me " Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot," or "good 
Gobbo," or " good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run 
away." My conscience says "No; take heed, honest Launcelot; 
take heed, honest Gobbo," or, as aforesaid, "honest Launcelot 
Gobbo; do net run ; scorn running with thy heels." Well, the most 
courageous fiend bids me pack : " Via ! " * says the fiend ; " away ! " 
says the fiend; "for the heavens, 2 rouse up a brave mind," says the 
fiend, " and run." Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of 
my heart, says very wisely to me, " My honest friend Launcelot, being 
an honest man's son," or rather an honest woman's son ; for indeed 
my father did something smack, something grow to, 3 he had a kind of 
taste; well, my conscience says, " Launcelot, budge not." " Budge," 
says the fiend. " Budge not," says my conscience. " Conscience," 
say I, " you counsel well ; " " Fiend," say I, " you counsel well : " to 
be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, 
who, God bless the mark, 4 is a kind of devil ; and, to run away from 
the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, is 
the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnal ; 5 and, 
in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to 
offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more 
friendly counsel : I will run, fiend ; my heels are at your command ; I 
will run. 

Enter Old Gobbo, with a basket. 

Gobbo. Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to 
master Jew's ? 

Launcelot. [Aside] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father! 
who, being more than sand-blind, 6 high-gravel-blind, knows me not : 
I will try confusions 7 with him. 

Gobbo. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way 
to master Jew's ? 

Launcelot. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, 
but, at the next turning of all, on your left ; marry, 8 at the very next 



416 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's 
house. 

Gobbo. By God's sondes, 9 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you 
tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him 
or no ? 

Launcelot. Talk you of young Master Launcelot ? \Aside\ 
Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. 10 — Talk you of young 
Master Launcelot? 

Gobbo. No master, 11 sir, but a poor man's son: his father, 
though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man and, God be 
thanked, well to live. 

Launcelot. Well, let his father be what a' will, 12 we talk of 
young Master Launcelot. 

Gobbo. Your worship's friend and Launcelot, sir. 

Launcelot. But I pray you, ergo, 13 old man, ergo, I beseech 
you, talk you of young Master Launcelot? 

Gobbo. Of Launcelot, an't I4 please your mastership. 

Launcelot. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master 
Launcelot, father; 15 for the young gentleman, according to Fates and 
Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches 
of learning, is indeed deceased, or, as you would say in plain terms, 
gone to heaven. 

Gobbo. Marry, God forbid ! the boy was the very staff of my age, 
my very prop. 

Launcelot. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, 16 a staff or 
a prop? Do you know me, father ? 

Gobbo. Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman : but, 
I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God rest his soul, alive or dead ? 

Launcelot. Do you not know me, father ? 

Gobbo. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. 

Launcelot. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of 
the knowing me : it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, 
old man, 1 will tell you news of your son : give me your blessing : truth 
will come to light ; murder cannot be hid long ; a man's son may, but 
at the length truth will out. 

Gobbo. Pray you, sir, stand up : 17 I am sure you are not Launce- 
lot, my boy. 

Launcelot. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but 
give me your blessing : I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son 
that is, your child that shall be. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 417 

Gobbo. I cannot think you are my son. 

Launcelot. I know not what I shall think of that : but I am 
Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my 
mother. 

Gobbo. Her name is Margery, indeed : I'll be sworn, if thou be 
Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might 
he be ! what a beard hast thou got ! thou hast more hair on thy chin 
than Dobbin my fill-horse l8 has on his tail. 

Launcelot. It should seem then that Dobbin's tail grows back- 
ward : I am sure he had more hair of his tail than I have of my face 
when I last saw him. 

Gobbo. Lord, how art thou changed ! How dost thou and thy 
master agree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now ? 

Launcelot. Well, well: but, for mine own part, as I have set 
up my rest I9 to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some 
ground. My master's a very Jew : give him a present ! give him a 
halter: I am famished in his service; you may tell every finger I 
have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come: give me 20 your 
present to one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries : 
if I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare 
fortune! here comes the man: to him, father; for I am a Jew, if I 
serve the Jew any longer. 

Enter Bassanio, with Leonardo and other followers. 

Bassanio. You may do so ; but let it be so hasted that supper 
be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters de- 
livered ; put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon 
to my lodging. ■ [Exit a Servant. 

Launcelot. To him, father. 

Gobbo. God bless your worship ! 

Bassanio. Gramercy! 21 wouldst thou aught with me ? 

Gobbo. Here's my son, sir, a poor boy, — 

Launcelot. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man ; that 
would, sir, as my father shall specify — 

Gobbo. He hath a great infection, 22 sir, as one would say, to 
serve — 

Launcelot. Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, 
and have a desire, as my father shall specify, — 

Gobbo. His master and he, saving your worship's reverence, are 
scarce cater-cousins 23 — 

Launcelot. To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having 



4i8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being, I hope, an old 
man, shall frutify 24 unto you, — 

Gobbo. I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon 
your worship, and my suit is — 

Launcelot, In very brief, the suit is impertinent 25 to myself, 
as your worship shall know by this honest old man ; and, though I say 
it, though old man, yet poor man, my father. 

Bassanio. One speak for both. What would you? 

Launcelot. Serve you, sir. 

Gobbo. That is the very defect 26 of the matter, sir. 

Bassanio. I know thee well ; thou hast obtain'd thy suit: 
Shylock thy master spoke with me this day, 
And hath preferrd 27 thee, if it be preferment 
To leave a rich Jew's service, to become 
The follower of so poor a gentleman. 

Launcelot. The old proverb 28 is very well parted between my 
master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of God, sir, and he 
hath enough. 

Bassanio. Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son. 
Take leave of thy old master and inquire 
My lodging out. Give him a livery 
More guarded 29 than his fellows' : see it done. 

Launcelot. Father, in. I cannot get a service, no; I have 
ne'er a tongue in my head. Well, if any man in Italy have a fairer 
table 30 which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good for- 
tune. Go to, here's a simple line of life, 31 here's a small trifle of 
wives : alas, fifteen wives is nothing ! eleven widows and nine maids 
is a simple coming-in for one man: and then to scape drowning 
thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed ; 32 
here are simple scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good 
wench for this gear. Father, come ; I'll take my leave of the Jew in 
the twinkling of an eye. {Exeunt Launcelot and Old Gobbo. 

Bassanio. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this : 
These things being bought and orderly bestow'd 
Return in haste, for I do feast to-night 
My best-esteemed acquaintance : hie thee, go. 

Leonardo. My best endeavours shall be done herein, 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 419 



Enter Gratiano. 

Gratiano. Where is your master ? 

Leonardo. Yonder, sir, he walks. \Exit. 

Gratiano. Signior Bassanio ! 

Bassanio. Gratiano ! 

Gratiano. I have a suit to you. 

Bassanio. You have obtain'd it. 

Gratiano. You must not deny me: I must go with you to 
Belmont. 

Bassanio. Why then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano; 
Thou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice ; 
Parts that become thee happily enough 
And in such eyes as ours appear not faults ; 
But where thou art not known, why, there they show 
Something too liberal. 33 Pray thee, take pain 
To allay with some cold drops of modesty 
Thy skipping 34 spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour 
I be misconstrued in the place I go to 
And lose my hopes. 

Gratiano. Signior Bassanio, hear me : 

If I do not put on a sober habit, 
Talk with respect and swear but now and then, 
Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, 
Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes 
Thus with my hat, 35 and sigh and say " amen," 
Use all the observance of civility, 36 
Like one well studied in a sad ostent 37 
To please his grandam, never trust me more. 

Bassanio. Well, we shall see your bearing. 

Gratiano. Nay, but I bar to-night : you shall not gauge me 
By what we do to-night. 

Bassanio. No, that were pity : 

I would entreat you rather to put on 
Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends 
That purpose merriment. But fare you well : 
I have some business. 

Gratiano. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest : 
But we will visit you at supper-time. \Exeunt. 



420 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Scene III. The same. A room in Shy lock' >s house. 
Enter Jessica and Launcelot. 

Jessica. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so: 
Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, 
Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. 
But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee : 
And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see 
Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest : 
Give him this letter ; do it secretly ; 
And so farewell : I would not have my father 
See me in talk with thee. 

Launcelot. Adieu ! tears exhibit ' my tongue. Most beautiful 
pagan, most sweet Jew, adieu: these foolish drops do something 
drown my manly spirit : adieu. 

Jessica. Farewell, good Launcelot. {Exit Launcelot. 

Alack, what heinous sin is it in me 
To be ashamed to be my father's child ! 
But though I am a daughter to his blood, 
I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo, 
If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, 
Become a Christian and thy loving wife. {Exit. 

Scene IV. The same. A street. 
Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Salanio. 

Lorenzo. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, 
Disguise us at my lodging and return, 
All in an hour. 

Gratiano. We have not made good preparation. 

Salarino. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers. 1 

Salanio. Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd, 
And better in my mind not undertook. 

Lorenzo. 'Tis now but four o'clock: we have two hours, 
To furnish us. 

Enter Launcelot, with a letter. 

Friend Launcelot, what's the news ? 
Launcelot. An 2 it shall please you to break up 3 this, it shall 
seem to signify. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 421 

Lorenzo. I know the hand : in faith, 'tis a fair hand, 
And whiter than the paper it writ on 
Is the fair hand that writ. 

Gratiano. Love-news, in faith. 

Launcelot. By your leave, sir. 

Lorenzo. Whither goest thou ? 

Launcelot. Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew to sup 
to-night with my new master the Christian. 

Lorenzo. Hold here, take this : tell gentle Jessica 
I will not fail her ; speak it privately. {Exit Launcelot. 

Go, gentlemen, 

Will you prepare you for this masque to-night ? 
I am provided of 4 a torch-bearer. 

Salarino. Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight. 

Salanio. And so will I. 

Lorenzo. Meet me and Gratiano 

At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence. 

Salarino. 'Tis good we do so. 

[Exeunt Salarino and Salanio. 

Gratiano. Was not that letter from fair Jessica ? 

Lorenzo. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed 
How I shall take her from her father's house, 
What gold and jewels she is furnish' d with, 
What page's suit she hath in readiness. 
If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven, 
It will be for his gentle daughter's sake : 
And never dare misfortune cross her foot, 
Unless she do it under this excuse, 
That she is issue to a faithless Jew. 
Come, go with me ; peruse this as thou goest: 
Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. [Exeunt. 

Scene V. The same. Before Shylock's house. 

Enter Shylock and Launcelot. 

Shylock. Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge, 
The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio : — 
What, Jessica ! — thou shalt not gormandize, 
As thou hast done with me : — What, Jessica ! — 



422 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out : — 
Why, Jessica, I say ! 

Launcelot. Why, Jessica ! 

Shylock. Who bids thee call ? I do not bid thee call. 

Launcelot. Your worship was wont to tell me that I could do 
nothing without bidding. 

Enter Jessica. 

Jessica. Call you ? what is your will ? 

Shylock. I am bid forth x to supper, Jessica: 
There are my keys. But wherefore should I go ? 
I am not bid for love ; they flatter me : 
But yet Til go in hate, to feed upon 
The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, 
Look to my house. I am right loath to go : 
There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, 
For I did dream of money-bags to-night. 

Launcelot. I beseech you, sir, go : my young master doth 
expect your reproach. 2 

Shylock. So do I his. 

Launcelot. An they have conspired together, I will not say you 
shall see a masque ; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my 
nose fell a-bleeding on Black-Monday 3 last at six o'clock i 1 the morn- 
ing falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year, in the 
afternoon. 

Shylock. What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica: 
Lock up my doors ; and when you hear the drum 
And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife, 4 
Clamber not you up to the casements then, 
Nor thrust your head into the public street 
To gaze on Christian fools with varnished faces, 
But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements: 
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter 
My sober house. By Jacob's staff, 5 I swear, 
I have no mind of feasting 6 forth to-night : 
But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah ; 
Say I will come. 

Launcelot. I will go before sir. Mistress, look out at window, 
for all this ; 

There will come a Christian by, 

Will be worth a Jewess 1 eye. [Exit. 



THE MERCHANT OE VENICE. 423 

Shylock. What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, 7 ha? 

Jessica. His words were "farewell mistress ; " nothing else. 

Shylock. The patch 8 is kind enough, but a huge feeder; 
Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day 
More than the wild-cat : drones hive not with me : 
Therefore I part with him, and part with him 
To one that I would have him help to waste 
His borrow'd purse. Well, Jessica, go in : 
Perhaps I will return immediately : 
Do as I bid you ; shut doors after you : 
Fast bind, fast find ; 
A proverb never stale in thifty mind. [Exit. 

Jessica. Farewell ; and if my fortune be not crost, 
I have a father, you a daughter, lost. {Exit. 

Scene VI. The same. 
Enter Gratiano and Salarino, 7nasqned. 

Gratiano. This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo 
Desired us to make stand. 

Salarino. His hour is almost past. 

Gratiano. And it is marvel he out-dwells * his hour, 
For lovers ever run before the clock. 

Salarino. O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons 2 fly 
To seal love's bonds new-made, than they are wont 
To keep obliged 3 faith unforfeited ! 

Gratiano. That ever holds : who riseth from a feast 
With that keen appetite that he sits down ? 
Where is the horse that doth untread again 
His tedious measures with the unbated fire 
That he did pace them first? All things that are 
Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd. 
How like a younker or a prodigal 
The scarfed 4 bark puts from her native bay, 
Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind ! 
How like the prodigal doth she return, 
With over-weather'd 5 ribs and ragged sails, 
Lean, rent and beggar'd by the strumpet wind ! 

Salarino. Here comes Lorenzo : more of this hereafter. 



424 ENGLISH LITER A TURE. 

Enter Lorenzo. 

Lorenzo. Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode ; 6 
Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait : 
When you shall please to play the thieves for wives, 
I'll watch as long for you then. Approach ; 
Here dwells my father Jew. Ho ! who's within? 

Enter Jessica, above, in boys clothes. 

Jessica. Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty, 
Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue. 

Lorenzo. Lorenzo, and thy love. 

Jessica. Lorenzo, certain, and my love indeed, 
For who 7 love I so much? And now who knows 
But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours? 

Lorenzo. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art. 

Jessica. Here, catch this casket ; it is worth the pains. 
I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me, 
For I am much ashamed of my exchange : 8 
But love is blind and lovers cannot see 
The pretty follies that themselves commit ; 
For if they could, Cupid himself would blush 
To see me thus transformed to a boy. 

Lorenzo. Descend, for yo'i must be my torch-bearer. 

Jessica. What, must I hold a candle to my shames? 
They in themselves, good sooth, 9 are too too light. 
Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love ; 
And I should be obscured. 

Lorenzo. So are you, sweet, 

Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. 
But come at once ; 

For the close 10 night doth play the runaway, 
And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast. 

Jessica. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself 
With some more ducats, and be with you straight. [Exit above* 

Gratiano. Now, by my hood, a Gentile and no Jew. 

Lorenzo. Beshrew me II but I love her heartily; 
For she is wise, if I can judge of her, 
And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, 
And true she is. as she hath proved herself, 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 425 

And therefore, like herself, wise, fair and true, 
Shall she be placed in my constant soul. 

Enter Jessica, below. 

What, art thou come? On, gentlemen ; away ! 
Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. 

[Exit with Jessica and Salarino. 

Enter Antonio. 

Antonio. Who's there? 

Gratiano. Signior Antonio ! 

Antonio. Fie, fie, Gratiano ! where are all the rest? 
'Tis nine o'clock : our friends all stay for you. 
No masque to-night : the wind is come about ; 
Bassanio presently will go aboard : 
I have sent twenty out to seek for you. 

Gratiano. I am glad on't ; 12 I desire no more delight 
Than to be under sail and gone to-night. [Exeunt. 

Scene VII. Belmont. A room in Portia's house. 

Flourish of Cornets. Enter Portia with the Prince of Morocco, 
and their trains. 

Portia. Go draw aside the curtains and discover 
The several caskets to this noble prince. 
Now make your choice. 

Morocco. The first, of gold, who v this inscription bears, 
" Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire ; " 
The second, silver, which this promise carries, 
" Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves ; " 
This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt, 2 
" Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath." 
How shall I know if I do choose the right? 

Portia. The one of them contains my picture, prince : 
If you choose that, then I am yours withal. 

Morocco. Some God direct my judgment ! Let me see ; 
I will survey the inscriptions back again. 
What says this leaden casket? 
■' Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath." 



426 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Must give! for what? for lead? hazard for lead? 

This casket threatens. Men that hazard all 

Do it in hope of fair advantages : 

A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross ; 

I'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. 

What says the silver with her virgin hue? 

" Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves." 

As much as he deserves ! Pause there, Morocco, 

And weigh thy value with an even hand : 

If thou be'st rated by thy estimation, 3 

Thou dost deserve enough ; and yet enough 

May not extend so far as to the lady : 

And yet to be afeard of my deserving 

Were but a weak disabling 4 of myself. 

As much as I deserve ! Why, that's the lady : 

I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, 

In graces and in qualities of breeding ; 

But more than these, in love I do deserve. 

What if I stray'd no further, but chose here? 

Let's see once more this saying graved in gold ; 

" Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire." 

Why, that's the lady ; all the world desires her ; 

From the four corners of the earth they come, 

To kiss this shrine, 5 this mortal breathing saint : 

The Hyrcanian deserts 6 and the vasty wilds 

Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now 

For princes to come view fair Portia : 

The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head 

Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar 

To stop the foreign spirits, but they come, 

As o'er a brook, to see fair Portia. 

One of these three contains her heavenly picture. 

Is't like that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation 

To think so base a thought : it were too gross 

To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. 

Or shall I think in silver she's immured, 

Being ten times undervalued 7 to tried gold? 

O sinful thought ! Never so rich a gem 

Was set in worse than gold. They have in England 

A coin that bears the figure of an angel 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 427 

Stamped in gold, but that's insculp'd upon ; 8 
But here an angel in a golden bed 
Lies all within. Deliver me the key: 
Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may ! 

Portia. There, take it, prince ; and if my form lies there, 
Then I am yours. [He unlocks the golden casket. 

Morocco. . O hell! what have we here? 
A carrion Death, 9 within whose empty eye 
There is a written scroll ! Ill read the writing. 
[Reads'] All that glisters is not gold ; 

Often have you heard that told : 
Many a man his life hath sold 
But my outside to behold : 
Gilded tombs do worms infold. 
Had you been as wise as bold, 
Young in limbs, in judgment old, 
Your answer had not been inscroll'd : 
Fare you well; your suit is cold. 
Cold, indeed ; and labour lost : 
Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost! 
Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart 
To take a tedious leave : thus losers part. 10 

[Exit with his tram. Flourish of Cornets. 
Portia. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go. 
Let all of his complexion choose me so. [Exeunt. 

Scene VIII. Venice. A street. 
Enter Salarino and Salanio. 

Salarino. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail: 
With him is Gratiano gone along; 
And in their ship I'm sure Lorenzo is not. 

Salanio. The villain Jew with outcries raised the duke, 
Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship. 

Salarino. He came too late, the .ship was under sail : 
But there the duke was given to understand 
That in a gondola were seen together 
Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica : 
Besides, Antonio certified the duke 
They were not with Bassanio in his ship. 



42§ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Salanio. I never heard a passion x so confused, 
So strange, outrageous, and so variable, 
As the dog Jew did utter in the streets : 
" My daughter ! O my ducats ! O my daughter! 
Fled with a Christian ! O my Christian ducats ! 
Justice ! the law ! my ducats, and my daughter ! 
A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, 
Of double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter! 
And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones, 
Stolen by my daughter ! Justice ! find the girl ; 
She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats." 

Salarino. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, 
Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. 

Salanio. Let good Antonio look he keep his day, 2 
Or he shall pay for this. 

Salarino. Marry, well remember'd. 

I reason'd 3 with a Frenchman yesterday, 
Who told me, in the narrow seas that part 
The French and English, there miscarried 
A vessel of our country richly fraught : 
I thought upon Antonio when he told me, 
And wish'd in silence that it were not his. 

Salanio. You were best 4 to tell Antonio what you hear; 
Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. 

Salarino. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. 
I saw Bassanio and Antonio part : 
Bassanio told him he would make some speed 
Of his return : he answer d, " Do not so ; 
Slubber s not business for my sake, Bassanio, 
But stay the very riping 6 of the time ; 
And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me, 
Let it not enter in your mind of love : 7 
Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts 
To courtship and such fair ostents of love 
As shall conveniently 9 become you there : " 
And even there, his eye being big with tears, 
Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, 
And with affection wondrous sensible IO 
He wrung Bassanio's hand ; and so they parted. 

Salanio. I think he only loves the world for him. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 429 

I pray thee, let us go and find him out 
And quicken his embraced heaviness " 
With some delight or other. 

Salarino. Do we so. 12 \Exeunt. 

Scene IX. Belmont. A rooi7i in Portia's house. 

Enter Nerissa with a Servitor. 

Nerissa. Quick, quick, I pray thee ; draw the curtain straight : l 
The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath, 
And comes to his election 2 presently. 

Flourish of Cornets. Enter the Prince of Arkagon, Portia, 
and their trains. 

Portia. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince ■ 
If you choose that wherein I am contain'd, 
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized : 
But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, 
You must be gone from hence immediately. 

Arragon. I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things : 
First, never to unfold to any one 
Which casket 'twas I chose ; next, if I fail 
Of the right casket, never in my life 
To woo a maid in way of marriage : 
Lastly, 

If I do fail in fortune of my choice, 
Immediately to leave you and be gone. 

Portia. To these injunctions every one doth swear 
That comes to hazard for my worthless self. 

Arragon. And so have I address'd me. 3 Fortune now 
To my heart's hope ! 4 Gold ; silver ; and base lead. 
" Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath." 
You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard. 
What says the golden chest? ha ! let me see 
"Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.' 
What many men desire ! that " many " may be meant 
By 5 the fool multitude, that choose by show, 
Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach ; 
Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet, 6 



430 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Builds in the weather on the outward wall, 

Even in the force and road of casuality. 

I will not choose what many men desire, 

Because I will not jump with 7 common spirits 

And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. 

Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house ; 

Tell me once more what title thou dost bear : 

" Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves : " 

And well said too ; for who shall go about 

To cozen fortune and be honourable 

Without the stamp of merit ? Let none presume 

To wear an undeserved dignity. 

O, that estates, degrees and offices 

Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honour 

Were purchased by the merit of the wearer ! 

How many then should cover that stand bare ! 

How many be commanded that command ! 

How much low peasantry would then be glean'd 

From the true seed of honour ! and how much honour 

Pick'd from the chaff and ruin 8 of the times 

To be new-varnish'd ! Well, but to my choice : 

" Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves." 

I will assume desert. Give me a key for this, 

And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 

\He opens the silver casket. 

Portia. Too long a pause for that which you find there. 

Arragon. What's here ? the portrait of a blinking idiot, 
Presenting me a schedule ! I will read it. 
How much unlike art thou to Portia ! 
How much unlike my hopes and my deservings ! 
" Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves." 
Did I deserve no more than a fool's head ? 
Is that my prize? are my deserts no better? 

Portia. To offend, and judge, 9 are distinct offices 
And of opposed natures. 

Arragon. What is here ? 

[Reads'] The fire seven times tried this : 

Seven times tried that judgment is, 
That did never choose amiss. 
Some there be that shadows kiss ; 



THE MERCHANT OE VENICE. 431 

Such have but a shadow's bliss : 
There be fools alive, I wis, 10 
Silver'd o'er; and so was this. 
Take what wife you will to bed, 
I will ever be your head : 
So be gone : you are sped. 11 

Still more fool I shall appear 

By the time I2 I linger here : 

With one fool's head I came to woo, 

But I go away with two. 

Sweet, adieu. I'll keep my oath, 

Patiently to bear my wroth. 13 

Exeunt Arragon and train. 

Portia. Thus hath the candle singed the moth. 
O, these deliberate fools ! when they do choose, 
They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. 

Nerissa. The ancient saying is no heresy, 
Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. 

Portia. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. 

Enter a Servant. 

Servant, Where is my lady? 

Portia. Here : what would my lord ? H 

Servant. Madam, there is alighted at your gate 
A young Venetian, one that comes before 
To signify the approaching of his lord ; 
From whom he bringeth sensible regreets, 15 
To wit, besides commends l6 and courteous breath, 
Gifts of rich value. Yet I? I have not seen 
So likely an ambassador of love : 
A day in April never came so sweet, 
To show how costly summer was at hand, 
As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord. 

Portia. No more, I pray thee : I am half afeard 
Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee, 
Thou spend'st such high-day wit in praising him. 
Come, come, Nerissa.; for I long to see 
Quick Cupid's post l8 that comes so mannerly. 

Nerissa. Bassanio, lord Love, 19 if thy will it be! [Exeunt. 



432 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ACT III. 

Scene I. Venice. A street. 

Enter Salanio and Salarino. 

Salanio. Now, what news on the Rialto? 

Salarino. Why, yet it lives there unchecked that Antonio hath 
a ship of rich lading wrecked on the narrow seas; the Goodwins, 1 
I think they call the place ; a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the 
carcases of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Re- 
port be an honest woman of her word. 

Salanio. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever 
knapped ginger 2 or made her neighbours believe she wept for the 
death of a third husband. But it is true, without any slips of pio- 
lixity or crossing the plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the 
honest Antonio, — O that I had a title good enough to keep his name 
company ! — 

Salarino. Come, the full stop. 

Salanio. Ha! what sayest thou? Why, the end is, he ham 
lost a ship. 

Salarino. I would it might prove the end of his losses. 

Salanio. Let me say "amen" betimes, lest the devil cross my 
prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew. 

Enter Shylock. 
How now, Shylock! what news among the merchants? 

Shylock. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my 
daughter's flight. 

Salarino. That's certain: I, for my part, knew the tailor that 
made the wings she flew withal. 3 

Salanio. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was 
fledged ; and then it is the complexion 4 of them all to leave the dam. 

Shylock. My own flesh and blood to rebel ! 

Salarino. There is more difference between thy flesh and hers 
than between jet and ivory ; more between your bloods than there is 
between red wine and Rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether 
Antonio have had any loss at sea or no ? 

Shylock. There I have another bad match : 5 a bankrupt, a 
prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto ; a beggar, 
that was used to come so smug 6 upon the mart ; let him look to his 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 433 

bond : he was wont to call me usurer ; let him look to his bond : he 
was wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy ; let him look to his 
bond. 

Salarino. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his 
flesh : what's that good for ? 

Shylock. To bait fish withal : if it will feed nothing else, it will 
feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a mil- 
lion; 7 laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, 
thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies ; and 
what's his reason ? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes ? hath not a Jew 
hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the 
same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, 
healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and 
summer, as a Christian is ? If you prick us, do we not bleed ? if you 
tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if 
you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we 3"e like you in the rest, 
we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his 
humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his 
sufferance be by Christian example ? Why, revenge. The villany 
you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the 
instruction. 

Enter a Servant. 

Servant. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house and 
desires to speak with you both. 

Salarino. We have been up and down to seek him. 

Enter Tubal. 
Salanio. Here comes another of the tribe: a third cannot be 
matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew. 

[Exeunt Salanio, Salarino, and Servant. 
Shylock. How now, Tubal! what news from Genoa? hast thou 
found my daughter? 

Tubal. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find 
her. 

Shylock. Why, there, there, there, there ! a diamond gone, cost 
me two thousand ducats in Frankfort ! 8 The curse never fell upon 
our nation till now ; I never felt it till now ; two thousand ducats in 
that ; 9 and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter 
were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear! would she were 
hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin ! No news of them ? 



434 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Why, so : and I know not what's spent in the search : why, thou loss 
upon loss ! the thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief; 
and no satisfaction, no revenge : nor no ill luck stirring but what 
lights on my shoulders ; no sighs but of my breathing ; no tears but 
of my shedding. 

Tubal. Yes, other men have ill luck too : Antonio, as I heard 
in Genoa, — 

Shylock. What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck? 

Tubal. Hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripoiis. 

Shylock. I thank God, I thank God. Is't true, is't true ? 

Tubal. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck. 

Shylock. I thank thee, good Tubal : good news, good news ! 
ha, ha! where? in Genoa? 

Tubal. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, in one night 
fourscore ducats. 

Shylock. Thou stickest a dagger in me : I shall never see my 
gold again : fourscore ducats at a sitting ! fourscore ducats ! 

Tubal. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company 
to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but break. 

Shylock. I am very glad of it : I'll plague him ; I'll torture him : 
I am glad of it. 

Tubal. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your 
daughter for a monkey. 

Shylock. Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: it was my 
turquoise ; IO I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor : I would not 
have given it for a wilderness of monkeys. 

Tubal. But Antonio is certainly undone. 

Shylock. Nay, that's true, that's very true. Go, Tubal, fee me 
an officer ; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of 
him, if he forfeit ; for, were he out of Venice, I can make what mer- 
chandise I will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue; go, 
good Tubal ; at our synagogue, Tubal. \Exeunt. 

Scene II. Belmont. A room in Portia's house. 

E?ite?- Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa, and 
Attendants. 
Portia. I pray you, tarry : pause a day or two 
Before you hazard ; for, in choosing wrong, 
I lose your company : therefore forbear awhile. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 435 

There's something tells me, but it is not love, 
I would not lose you ; and you know yourself, 
Hate counsels not in such a quality. 
But lest you should not understand me well, — 
And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought, — 
I would detain you here some month or two 
Before you venture for me. I could teach you 
How to choose right, but 1 am then forsworn ; z 
So will I never be : so may you miss me ; 
But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin, 
That I had been forsworn. Beshrew 2 your eyes, 
They have o'erlook'd me 3 and divided me ; 
One half of me is yours, the other half yours, 
Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, 
And so all yours. O, these naughty times 
Put bars between the owners and their rights ! 
And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so, 4 
Let fortune go to hell for it, not I. 
I speak too long ; but 'tis to peize 5 the time, 
So eke it and to draw it out in length, 
To stay you from election. 

Bassanio. Let me choose ; 

For as I am, I live upon the rack. 

Portia. Upon the rack, Bassanio! then confess 
What treason there is mingled with your love. 

Bassanio. None but that ugly treason of mistrust, 
Which makes me fear 6 the enjoying of my love : 
There may as well be amity and life 
'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love. 

Portia. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack, 
Where men enforced do speak anything. 

Bassanio. Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth. 

Portia. Well then, confess and live. 

Bassanio. " Confess " and " love " 

Had been the very sum of my confession; 
O happy torment, when my torturer 
Doth teach me answers for deliverance ! 
But let me to my fortune and the caskets. 

Portia. Away, then ! I am lock"d in one of them : 
If you do love me, you will find me out. 



436 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof. 

Let music sound while he doth make his choice ; 

Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, 7 

Fading in music : that the comparison 

May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream 

And watery death-bed for him. He may win ; 

And what is music then? Then music is 

Even as the nourish 8 when true subjects bow 

To a new-crowned monarch : such it is 

As are those dulcet sounds in break of day 

That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear 

And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, 

With no less presence, but with much more love, 

Than young Alcides, 9 when he did redeem 

The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy 

To the sea-monster : I stand for sacrifice ; 

The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, 10 

With bleared visages, come forth to view 

The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules ! 

Live thou, I live : with much, much more dismay 

I view the fight than thou that makest the fray. 

Music, whilst Bassanio comments on the caskets to himself. 

SONG. 
Tell me where is fancy bred, 
Or in the heart or in the head ? 
How begot, how nourished ? 

Reply, reply. 
It is engender'd in the eyes, 
With gazing fed ; and fancy dies 
In the cradle where it lies. 

Let us all ring fancy's knell : 

I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. 

All. Ding, dong, bell. 

Bassanio. So may the outward shows be least themselves : 
The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. 
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt 
But, being season'd with a gracious voice, 
Obscures the show of evil? In religion, 
What damned error, but some sober brow 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 437 

Will bless it and approve " it with a text, 

Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? 

There is no vice so simple but assumes 

Some mark of virtue on his I2 outward parts : 

How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false 

As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins 

The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, 

Who, inward searched, have livers white as milk; 13 

And these assume but valour's excrement I4 

To render them redoubted ! Look on beauty, 

And you shall see 'tis purchas'd by the weight ; 

Which therein works a miracle in nature, 

Making them lightest that wear most of it : 

So are those crisped snaky golden locks 

Which make such wanton gambols with the wind, 

Upon supposed fairness, 15 often known 

To be the dowry of a second head, 

The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. 

Thus ornament is but the guiled l6 shore 

To a most dangerous sea ; the beauteous scarf 

Veiling an Indian beauty ; I7 in a word, 

The seeming truth which cunning times put on 

To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, 

Hard food for Midas, 18 I will none of thee ; 

Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 

'Tween man and man : but thou, thou meagre lead, 

Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught, 

Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence ; 

And here choose I : joy be the consequence ! 

Portia \Aside\ . How all the other passions fleet to air, 
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair, 
And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy ! 

love, be moderate ; allay thy ecstasy ; 
In measure rain thy joy ; scant this excess. 

1 feel too much thy blessing : make it less, 
For fear I surfeit. 

Bassanio. What find I here? {Opening the leaden casket 

Fair Portia's counterfeit ! IQ What demi-god 
Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? 
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, 



438 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Seem they in motion? Here are sever'd lips, 
Parted with sugar breath : so sweet a bar 
Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs 
The painter plays the spider and hath woven 
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men 
Faster than gnats in cobwebs : but her eyes, — 
How could he see to do them? having made one, 
Methinks it should have power to steal both his 
And leave itself unfurnish'd. 20 Yet look, how far 
The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow 
In underprizing it, so far this shadow 
Doth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll, 
The continent 21 and summary of my fortune, 

[Reads] You that choose not by the view, 
Chance as fair and choose as true ! 
Since this fortune falls to you, 
Be content and seek no new. 
If you be well pleas'd with this 
And hold your fortune for your bliss, 
Turn you where your lady is 
And claim her with a loving kiss. 

A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave ; 
I come by note, 22 to give and to receive. 
Like one of two contending in a prize, 23 
That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes, 
Hearing applause and universal shout, 
Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt 
Whether those peals of praise be his or no, 
So, thrice-fair lady, stand I, even so;- 
As doubtful whether what I see be true, 
Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you. 

Portia. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand* 
Such as I am : though for myself alone 
I would not be ambitious in my wish, 
To wish myself much better ; yet, for you 
I would be trebled twenty times myself; 
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times 
More rich ; 
That only to stand high in your account, 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 439 

I might in virtues, beauties, livings, 24 friends, 
Exceed account ; but the full sum of me 
Is sum of — something, which, to term in gross, 
Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractised; 
Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
But she may learn ; happier than this, 
She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 
Happiest of all in that her gentle spirit 
Commits itself to yours to be directed, 
As from her lord, her governor, her king. 
Myself and what is mine to you and yours 
Is now converted : but now I was the lord 
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, 
Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, 
This house, these servants and this same myself 
Are yours, my lord : I give them with this ring; 
Which when you part from, lose, or give away, 
Let it presage the ruin of your love 
And be my vantage to exclaim on you. 25 

Bassanio. Madam, you have bereft me of all words.. 
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins ]_ 
And there is such confusion in my powers 
As, after some oration fairly spoke 
By a beloved prince, there doth appear 
Among the buzzing pleased multitude ; 
Where every something, being blent together, 
Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy, 
Express'd and not express'd. But when this ring 
Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence : 
Oh, then be bold to say Bassanio's dead ! 

Nerissa. My lord and lady, it is now our time, 
That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, 
To cry, good joy : good joy, my lord and lady ! 

Gratiano. My lord Bassanio and my gentle lady, 
I wish you all the joy that you can wish ; 
For I am sure you can wish none from me : 26 
And when your honours mean to solemnize 
The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you, 
Even at that time I may be married too. 

Bassanio. With all my heart, so 27 thou canst get a wife. 



440 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Gratiano. I thank your lordship, you have got me one. 
My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours : 
You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid ; 
You lov'd, I lov'd, for intermission 28 
No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. 
Your fortune stood upon the casket there, 
And so did mine too, as the matter falls ; 
For wooing here until I sweat again, 
And swearing till my very roof was dry 
With oaths of love, at last, if promise last, 29 
I got a promise of this fair one here 
To have her love, provided that your fortune 
Achiev'd her mistress. 

Portia. Is this true, Nerissa? 

Nerissa. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd withal. 

Bassanio. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith? 

Gratiano. Yes, faith, my lord. 

Bassanio. Our feast shall be much honour'd in your marriage. 

Gratiano. But who comes here ? Lorenzo and his infidel ? 
What, and my old Venetian friend Salerio ? 

E?iter Lorenzo, Jessica, and Salerio, a messenger from 
Vetiice. 

Bassanio. Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither; 
If that the youth of my new interest here 
Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave, 
I bid my very 30 friends and countrymen, 
Sweet Portia, welcome. 

Portia. So do I, my lord : 

They are entirely welcome. 

Lorenzo. I thank your honour. For my part, my lord, 
My purpose was not to have seen you here ; 
But meeting with Salerio by the way, 
He did entreat me, past all saying nay, 
To come with him along. 

Salerio. I did, my lord ; 

And I have reason for it. Signor Antonio 
Commends him 3I to you. {Gives Bassanio a letter. 

Bassanio. Ere I ope his letter, 

I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 



441 



Salerio. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind; 
Nor well, unless in mind : his letter there 
Will show you his estate. 32 

Gratiano. Nerissa, cheer yon stranger ; bid her welcome. 
Your hand, Salerio: what's the news from Venice? 
How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio? 
I know he will be glad of our success ; 
We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece. 

Salerio. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost. 

Portia. There are some shrewd 33 contents in yon same paper, 
That steals the colour from Bassanio's cheek : 
Some dear friend dead ; else nothing in the world 
Could turn so much the constitution 
Of any constant 34 man. What, worse and worse ! 
With leave, Bassanio ; I am half yourself, 
And I must freely have the half of anything 
That this same paper brings you. 

Bassanio. O sweet Portia, 

Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words 
That ever blotted paper ! Gentle lady, 
When I did first impart my love to you, 
I freely told you, all the wealth I had 
Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman ; 
And then I told you true ; and yet, dear lady, 
Rating myself at nothing, you shall see 
How much I was a braggart. When I told you 
My state was nothing, I should then have told you 
That I was worse than nothing ; for indeed 
I have engag'd myself to a dear friend, 
Engag'd my friend to his mere 35 enemy, 
To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady ; 
The paper as the body of my friend, 
And every word in it a gaping wound, 
Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio ? 
Have all his ventures failed? What, not one hit? 
From Tripolis, from Mexico and England, 
From Lisbon, Barbary and India? 
And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch 
Of merchant-marring rocks ? 

Salerio. Not one, my lord. 



44 2 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Besides, it should appear, 36 that if he had 
The present money to discharge the Jew, 
He would not take it. Never did I know 
A creature, that did bear the shape of man, 
So keen and greedy to confound 37 a man : 
He plies the duke at morning and at night, 
And doth impeach the freedom of the state, 38 
If they deny him justice : twenty merchants, 
The duke himself, and the magnificoes 39 
Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him; 
But none can drive him from the envious plea 4 ° 
Of forfeiture, of justice and his bond. 

Jessica. When I was with him I have heard him swear 
To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen, 
That he would rather have Antonio's flesh 
Than twenty times the value of the sum 
That he did owe him : and I know, my lord, 
If law, authority, and power deny not, 
It will go hard with poor Antonio. 

Portia. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble? 

Bassanio. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, 
The best-condition'd 4I and unwearied spirit 
In doing courtesies, and one in whom 
The ancient Roman honour more appears 
Than any that draws breath in Italy. 

Portia. What sum owes he the Jew? 

Bassanio. For me three thousand ducats. 

Portia. What, no more ? 

Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond ; 
Double six thousand, and then treble that, 
Before a friend of this description 
Shall lose a hair through my Bassanio's fault. 
First go with me to church and call me wife, 
And then away to Venice to your friend ; 
For never shall you lie by Portia's side 
With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold 
To pay the petty debt twenty times over : 
When it is paid, bring your true friend along. 
My maid Nerissa and myself meantime 
Will live as maids and widows. Come, away ! 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 443 

For you shall hence upon your wedding day : 
Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer : 42 
Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. 
But let me hear the letter of your friend. 

Bassanio. [Reads] " Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, 
my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is 
forfeit ; and since in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts 
are cleared between you and I, 43 if I might but see you at my death. 
Notwithstanding, use your pleasure : if your love do not persuade you 
to come, let not my letter.' 1 

Portia. O love, dispatch all business, and be gone ! 

Bassanio. Since I have your good leave to go away, 
I will make haste : but, till I come again, 

No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay, 

No rest be interposer 'twixt us twain. [Exeunt. 



Scene III. Venice. A street. 
Enter Shylock, Salarino, Antonio, and Gaoler. 

Shylock. Gaoler, look to him : tell not me of mercy ; 
This is the fool that lent out money gratis : 
Gaoler, look to him. 

Antonio. Hear me yet, good Shylock. 

Shylock. I'll have my bond ; speak not against my bond : 
I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. 
Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause ; 
But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs : 
The duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, 
Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond * 
To come 2 abroad with him at his request. 

Antonio. I pray thee, hear me speak. 

Shylock. I'll have my bond ; I will not hear thee speak : 
I'll have my bond : and therefore speak no more. 
I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed 3 fool, 
To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield 
To Christian intercessors. Follow not ; 
I'll have no speaking; I will have my bond. [Exit. 

Salarino. It is the most impenetrable cur 
That ever kept 4 with men. 



444 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Antonio. Let him alone : 

I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers. 
Ke seeks my life ; his reason well I know : 
I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures 
Many that have at times made moan to me ; 
Therefore he hates me. 

Salarino. I am sure the duke 

Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. 

Antonio. The duke cannot deny the course of law : 5 
For the commodity 6 that strangers have 
With us in Venice, if it be denied, 
Will much impeach the justice of his state ; 
Since that the trade and profit of the city 
Consisteth of all nations. Therefore go: 
These griefs and losses have sc bated 7 me, 
That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh 
To-morrow to my bloody creditor. 
Well, gaoler, on. Pray God, Bassanio come 
To see me pay his debt, and then I care not ! [Exeunt, 

Scene IV. Belmont. A room in Portia's house. 
Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jessica, and Balthasar. 

Lorenzo. Madam, although I speak it in your presence, 
You have a noble and a true conceit l 
Of god-like amity ; which appears most strongly 
In bearing thus the absence of your lord. 
But if you knew to whom you show this honour, 
How true a gentleman you send relief, 
How dear a lover 2 of my lord your husband, 
I know you would be prouder of the work 
Than customary bounty can enforce you. 3 

Portia. I never did repent for doing good, 
Nor shall not now : for in companions 
That do converse and waste the time together, 
Whose souls do bear an equal yoke'of love, 
There must be needs a like proportion 
Of lineaments, of manners and of spirit; 
Which makes me think that this Antonio, 
Being the bosom lover of my lord, 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 445 

Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, 

How little is the cost I have bestow"d 

In purchasing the semblance of my soul 

From out the state of hellish misery ! 

This comes too near the praising of myself: 

Therefore no more of it : hear other things. 

Lorenzo, I commit into your hands 

The husbandry and manage 4 of my house 

Until my lord's return : for mine own part, 

I have toward heaven breath *d a secret vow 

To live in prayer and contemplation, 

Only attended by Nerissa here, 

Until her husband and my lord's return : 

There is a monastery two miles off; 

And there will we abide. I do desire you 

Not to deny this imposition, 5 

The which my love and some necessity 

Now lays upon you. 

Lorenzo. Madam, with all my heart: 

[ shall obey you in all fair commands. 

Portia. My people do already know my mind, 
And will acknowledge you and Jessica 
In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. 
And so farewell, till we shall meet again. 

Lorenzo. Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you! 

Jessica. I wish your ladyship all heart's content. 

Portia. I thank you for your wish, and am well pleased 
To wish it back on you : fare you well, Jessica. 

[Exeunt Jessica and Lorenzo 
Now, Balthasar, 

As I have ever found thee honest-true, 
So let me find thee still. Take this same letter. 
And use thou all the endeavour of a man 
In speed to Padua : 6 see thou render this 
Into my cousin's hand, Doctor Bellario ; 
And, look, what notes and garments he doth give thee„ 
Bring them, I pray thee, with imagined speed 7 
Unto the tranect, 8 to the common ferry 
Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words, 
But get thee gone : I shall be there before thee. 



446 ENGLISH LITER A TURE. 

Balthasar. Madam, I go with all convenient 9 speed. {_Exil, 

Portia. Come on, Nerissa ; I have work in hand 
That you yet know not of: we'll see our husbands 
Before they think of us . 

Nerissa. Shall they see us ? 

Portia. They shall, Nerissa ; but in such a habit, 
That they shall think we are accomplished 
With that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager, 
When we are both accoutred like young men, 
I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, 
And wear my dagger with the braver grace, 
And speak between the change of man and boy 
With a reed voice, 10 and turn two mincing steps 
Into a manly stride, and speak of frays 
Like a fine bragging youth, and tell quaint IX lies, 
How honourable ladies sought my love, 
Which I denying, they fell sick and died ; 
I could not do withal ; I2 then I'll repent, 
And wish, for all that, that I had not kill'd them ; 
And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell, 
That men shall swear I have discontinued school 
Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind 
A thousand raw I3 tricks of these bragging Jacks, 14 
Which I will practise. 

But come, I'll tell thee all my whole device IS 
When I am in my coach, which stays for us 
At the park gate ; and therefore haste away, 
For we must measure twenty miles to-day. \_Exeunt. 



Scene V. The same. A 

Elite?- Launcelot and Jessica. 

Launcelot. Yes, truly ; for, look you, the sins of the fathers are 
to be laid upon the children: therefore, I promise ye, I fear you. 1 I 
was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation 2 of the 
matter : therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are damned. 
There is but one hope in it that can do you any good ; and that is but 
a kind of base hope neither. 

Jessica. And what hope is that, I pray thee? 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 447 

Launcelot. Marry, you may partly hope that you are not the 
Jew's daughter. 

Jessica. That were a kind of base hope, indeed: so the sins of 
my mother should be visited upon me. 

Launcelot. Truly then I fear you are damned both by father 
and mother : thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charyb- 
dis, 3 your mother: well, you are gone both ways. 

Jessica. I shall be saved by my husband ; 4 he hath made me a 
Christian. 

Launcelot. Truly, the more to blame he • we were Christians 
enow 5 before ; e'en as many as could well live, one by another. This 
making of Christians will raise the price of hogs : if we grow all to 
be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher 6 on the coals for 
money. 

Enter Lorenzo. 

Jessica. Til tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say : here he 
comes. 

Lorenzo. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot. 

Jessica. Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo : Launcelot and I are 
out. 7 He tells me flatly, there is no mercy for me in heaven, because 
I am a Jew's daughter: and he says, you are no good member of the 
commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians, you raise the price 
of pork. 

Lorenzo. I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into si- 
lence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go 
in, sirrah ; bid them prepare for dinner. 

Launcelot. That ?s done, sir: they have all stomachs. 

Lorenzo. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you ! then bid 
them prepare dinner. 

Launcelot. That is done too, sir; only ".cover" is the word. 

Lorenzo. Will you cover then, sir? 

Launcelot. Not so, sir, neither ; I know my duty. 8 

Lorenzo. Yet more quarrelling with occasion 9 ! Wilt thou show 
the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray thee, understand a 
plain man in his plain meaning : go to thy fellows ; bid them cover the 
table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner. 

Launcelot. For the table, sir, it shall be served in ; for the 
meat, sir, it shall be covered ; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, 
let it be as humours and conceits shall govern. {Exit. 

Lorenzo. O dear discretion, 10 how his words are suited ! 



448 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The fool hath planted in his memory 

An army of good words ; and I do know 

A many 11 fools, that stand in better place, 

Garnish'd 12 like him, that for a tricksy word 

Defy the matter. 13 How cheerst thou, 14 Jessica? 

And now, good sweet, say thy opinion, 

How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife ? 

Jessica. Past all expressing. It is very meet 
The Lord Bassanio live an upright life ; 
For, having such a blessing in his lady, 
He finds the joys of heaven here on earth 5 
And if on earth he do not merit it, then 
In reason he should never come to heaven. 
Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match 
And on the wager lay two earthly women, 
And Portia one, there must be something else 
PawnM with the other, for the poor rude world 
Hath not her fellow. 

Lorenzo. Even such a husband 

Hast thou of me as she is for a wife. 

Jessica. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that. 

Lorenzo. 1 will anon : first, let us go to dinner. 

Jessica. Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach 

Lorenzo. No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk; 
Then, howsoe 1 er thou speak'st, 'mong other things 
I shall digest it. 

Jessica. Well, I'll set you forth. 15 {Exeunt 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. Venice. A court of justice. 

Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes, Antonio, Bassanio, 
Gratiano, Salerio, and others. 
Duke. What, is Antonio here? 
Antonio. Ready, so please your grace. 
Duke. I am sorry for thee : thou art come to answer 
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 
Uncapable J of pity, void and empty 
From any dram of mercy. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 449 

Antonio. I have heard 

Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify 2 
His rigorous course ; but since he stands obdurate 
And that 3 no lawful means can carry me 
Out of his envy's reach, 4 I do oppose 
My patience to his fury, and am arm'd 
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, 
The very tyranny and rage of his. 

Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into court. 

Salerio. He is ready at the door: he comes, my lord. 

Enter Shylock. 

Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face. 
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, 
That thou but lead\st this fashion of thy malice 
To the last hour of act ; and then 'tis thought 
Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse 5 more strange 
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty ; 
And where 6 thou now exact'st the penalty, 
Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh, 
Thou wilt not only loose 7 the forfeiture, 
But, touch'd with human gentleness and love, 
Forgive a moiety 8 of the'principal ; 
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, 
That have of late so huddled on his back, 
Enow to press a royal merchant down 
And pluck commiseration of his state 
From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, 
From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd 
To offices of tender courtesy. 
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. 

Shylock. I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose, 
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn 
To have the due and forfeit of my bond : 
If you deny it, let the danger light 
Upon your charter 9 and your city's freedom. 
You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have 
A weight of carrion flesh than to receive 
Three thousand ducats : I'll not answer that : 
But, say, it is my humour: is it answer'd? 



450 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

What if my house be troubled with a rat, 

Am I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats 

To have it baned ? What, are you answer'd yet? 

Some men there are love not a gaping pig ; IO 

Some, that are mad if they behold a cat ; 

Some, when they hear the bagpipe : for affection, 

Mistress of passion, 11 sways it to the mood 

Of what it likes or loathes. Now,' for your answer: 

As there is no firm reason to be render'd, 

Why he cannot abide a gaping pig ; 

Why he, a harmless necessary cat ; 

Why he, a woollen bagpipe ; but of force 

Must yield to such inevitable shame 

As to offend, himself being offended ; 

So can I give no reason, nor I will not, 

More than a lodg'd I2 hate and a certain loathing 

I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 

A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd ? 

Bassanio. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, 
To excuse the current I3 of thy cruelty. 

Shylock. I am not bound to please thee with my answers. 

Bassanio. Do all men kill the things they do not love? 

Shylock. Hates any man the thing he would not kill? 

Bassanio. Every offence is not a hate at first. 

Shylock. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice ? 

Antonio. I pray you, think you question I4 with the Jew : 
You may as well go stand upon the beach 
And bid the main flood I5 bate his usual height ; 
You may as well use question with the wolf 
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb ; 
You may as well forbid the mountain pines 
To wag their high tops and to make no noise, 
When they are fretten l6 with the gusts of heaven ; 
You may as well do anything most hard, 
As seek to soften that — than which what's harder? — 
His Jewish heart : therefore, I do beseech you, 
Make no more offers, use no farther means, 
But with all brief and plain conveniency 1? 
Let me have judgment 18 and the Jew his will. 

Bassanio. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 45 1 

Shylock. If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
Were in six parts and every part a ducat, 
I would not draw them ; I would have my bond. 

Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none ? 

Shylock. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong? 
You have among you many a purchas'd slave, 
Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules, 
You use in abject and in slavish parts, 19 
Because you bought them : shall I say to you, 
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs ? 
Why sweat they under burthens ? let their beds 
Be made as soft as yours and let their palates 
Be season'd with such viands ? You will answer 
" The slaves are ours : " so do I answer you : 
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, 
Is dearly bought ; 'tis mine and I will have it. 
If you deny me, fie upon your law ! 
There is no force in the decrees of Venice. 
I stand for judgment : answer ; shall I have it ? 

Duke. Upon my power 20 I may dismiss this court, 
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, 
Whom I have sent for to determine 2I this, 
Come here to-day. 

Salerio. My lord, here stays without 

A messenger with letters from the doctor, 
New come from Padua. 

Duke. Bring us the letters ; call the messenger. 

Bassanio. Good cheer, Antonio ! What, man, courage yet! 
The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, 
Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. 

Antonio. I am a tainted wether of the flock, 
Meetest for death : the weakest kind of fruit 
Drops earliest to the ground ; and so let me : 
You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio, 
Than to live still and write mine epitaph. 

Enter Nerissa, dressed like a lawyer's clerk. 
Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario? 
Nerissa. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace. 

{Presenting a letter. 



452 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Bassanio. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly? 
Shylock. To cut forfeiture from that bankrupt there. 
Gratiano. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, 
Thou makest thy knife keen ; but no metal can, 
No, not the hangman's 22 axe, bear half the keenness 
Of thy sharp envy. 23 Can no prayers pierce thee? 

Shylock. No, none that thou hast wit 24 enough to make. 
Gratiano. O, be thou damivd, inexecrable 25 dog i 
And for thy life let justice be accused. 26 
Thou almost makest me waver in my faith 
To hold opinion with Pythagoras, 27 
That souls of animals infuse themselves 
Into the trunks of men : thy currish spirit 
Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd 28 for human slaughter, 
Even from the gallows did his fell 29 soul fleet, 30 
And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam, 
Infused itself in thee ; for thy desires 
Are wolfish, bloody, starved and ravenous. 

Shylock. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond, 
Thou but offend'st 31 thy lungs to speak so loud : 
Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall 
To cureless ruin. I stand here for law. 

Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend 
A young and learned doctor to our court. 
Where is he? 

Nerissa. He attendeth here hard by, 
To know your answer, whether you'll admit him. 

Duke. With all my heart. Some three or four of you 
Go give him courteous conduct to this place. 
Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter. 

Clerk. \Reads\ " Your Grace shall understand tha: at the re- 
ceipt of your letter I am very sick : but in the instant that your mes- 
senger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of 
Rome ; his name is Balthasar. I acquainted him with the cause in 
controversy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant : w r e turned 
o'er many books together: he is furnished with my opinion; which, 
bettered with his own learning, the greatness whereof I cannot enough 
commend, comes with him, at my importunity, to fill up 32 your grace's 
request in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of years be no im- 
pediment to let him lack 33 a reverend estimation; for I never knew 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 453 

so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious 
acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation." 

Duke. You hear the learn'd Bellario, what he writes : 
And here, I take it, is the doctor come. 

Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws . 

Give me your hand. Came you from old Bellario ? 

Portia. I did, my lord. 

Duke. You are welcome : take your place. 54 

Are you acquainted with the difference 
That holds this present question 35 in the court? 

Portia. I am informed throughly of the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew? 

Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. 

Portia. Is your name Shylock? 

Shylock. Shylock is my name. 

Portia. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ; 
Yet in such rule 3& that the Venetian law 
Cannot impugn 37 you as you do proceed. 
You stand within his danger, s8 do you not? 

Antonio. Ay, so he says. 

Portia. Do you confess the bond? 

Antonio. I do. 

Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful. 

Shylock. On what compulsion must I? tell me that. 

Portia. The quality of mercy is not strain'd, 39 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath ; it is twice blest ; 
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes : 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest : it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway ; 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore. Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this, 



454 ENGLISH LITER A TURE. 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 

Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much 

To mitigate the justice of thy plea ; 

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 

Shylock. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law, 
The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 

Portia. Is he not able to discharge the money? 

Bassanio. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court 
Yea, twice the sum : if that will not suffice, 
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, 
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart: 
If this will not suffice, it must appear 
That malice bears down truth. 40 And I beseech you, 
Wrest once the law to your authority : 
To do a great right, do a little wrong, 
And curb this cruel devil of his will. 

Portia. It must not be ; there is no power in Venice 
Can alter a decree established : 
'Twill be recorded for a precedent, 
And many an error by the same example 
Will rush into the state : it cannot be. 

Shylock. A Daniel 4I come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
O wise young judge, how I do honour thee ! 

Portia. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 

Shylock. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. 

Portia. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee. 

Shylock. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven : 
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? 
No, not for Venice. 

Portia. Why, this bond is forfeit ; 

And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful : 
Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. 

Shylock. When it is paid according to the tenour. 
It doth appear you are a worthy judge ; 
You know the law, your exposition 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 455 

Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law, 
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, 
Proceed to judgment : by my soul I swear 
There is no power in the tongue of man 
To alter me : I stay here on my bond. 

Antonio. Most heartily I do beseech the court 
To give the judgment. 

Portia. Why then, thus it is : 

You must prepare your bosom for his knife. 

Shylock. O noble judge ! O excellent young man ! 

Portia. For the intent and purpose of the law 
Hath full relation 42 to the penalty 
Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 

Shylock. ' Tis very true : O wise and upright judge ! 
How much more elder 43 art thou than thy looks ! 

Portia. Therefore lay bare your bosom. 

Shylock. Ay, his breast : 

So says the bond : doth it not, noble judge? 
" Nearest his heart : " those are the very words. 

Portia. It is so. Are there balance 44 here to weigh 
The flesh? 

Shylock. I have them ready. 

Portia. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, 45 
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. 

Shylock. Is it so nominated in the bond? 

Portia. It is not so express'd : but what of that? 
'Twere good you do so much for charity. 

Shylock. I cannot find it ; 'tis not in the bond. 

Portia. You, merchant, have you any thing to say? 

Antonio. But little : I am arafd and well prepar'd. 
Give me your hand, Bassanio : fare you well ! 
Grieve not that I am falPn to this for you ; 
For herein Fortune shows herself more kind 
Than is her custom : it is still her use 46 
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, 
To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow 
An age of poverty ; from which lingering penance 
Of such misery doth she cut me off. 
Commend me to your honourable wife : 
Tell her the process of Antonio's end ; 



456 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Say how I loved you, speak me fair in death ; 47 
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge 
Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
Repent but you that you shall lose your friend, 
And he repents not that he pays your debt ; 
For if the Jew do cut but deep enough, 
I'll pay it presently with all my heart. 48 

Bassanio. Antonio, I am married to a wife 
Which is as dear to me as life itself; 
But life itself, my wife, and all the world, 
Are not with me esteem' d above thy life : 
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all 
Here to this devil, to deliver you. 

Portia. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, 
If she were by, to hear you make the offer. 

Gratiano. I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love: 
I would she were in heaven, so she could 
Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. 

Nerissa. 'Tis well you offer it behind her back; 
The wish would make else an unquiet house. 

Shylock. [Aside'] These be the Christian husbands. I have a 
daughter ; 
Would any of the stock of Barrabas 
Had been her husband rather than a Christian 
\Aloud~\ We trifle time : I pray thee, pursue sentence. 

Portia. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine : 
The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 

Shylock. Most rightful judge ! 

Portia. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast : 
The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

Shylock. Most learned judge ! A sentence ! Come, prepare ! 

Portia. Tarry a little ; there is something else. 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; 
The words expressly are " a pound of flesh : " 
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ; 
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the state of Venice. 

Gratiano. O upright judge ! Mark, Jew : O learned judge ! 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

Shylock. Is that the law? 

Portia. Thyself shalt see the act: 

For, as thou urgest justice, be assured 
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 

Gratiano. O learned judge ! Mark, Jew : a learned judge ! 

Shylock. I take this offer, then; pay the bond thrice 
And let the Christian go. 

Bassanio. Here is the money. 

Portia. Soft ! 
The Jew shall have all justice ; soft ! no haste : 
He shall have nothing but the penalty. 

Gratiano. O Jew ! an upright judge, a learned judge ! 

Portia. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more 
But just a pound of flesh : if thou cufst more 
Or less than a just 49 pound, be it but so much 
As makes it light or heavy in the substance, 50 
Or the division of the twentieth part 
Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn 
But in the estimation of a hair, 
Thou diest and all thy goods are confiscate. 

Gratiano. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew ! 
Now, infidel, I have } ou on the hip. 

Portia. Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.. 

Shylock. Give me my principal, and let me go. 

Bassanio. I have it ready for thee ; here it is. 

Portia. He hath refused it in the open court : 
He shall have merely justice and his bond. 

Gratiano. A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 

Shylock. Shall I not have barely my principal? 

Portia. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 

Shylock. Why, then the devil give him good of it ! 
I'll stay no longer question. 

Portia. Tarry, Jew: 

The law hath yet another hold on you. 
It is enacted in the laws of Venice, 
If it be proved against an alien 
That by direct or indirect attempts 



457 



458 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

He seek the life of any citizen, 

The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive SI 

Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half 

Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; 

And the offender's life lies in the mercy 

Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 

In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st; 

For it appears, by manifest proceeding, 

That indirectly and directly too 

Thou hast contrived against the very life 

Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurr'd 

The danger formerly 52 by me rehears'd. 

Down therefore and beg mercy of the duke. 

Gratiano. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself: 
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, 
Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; 
Therefore thou must be hang'd at the state's charge. 

Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits, 
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it : 
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; 
The other half comes to the general state, 
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 53 

Portia. Ay, for the state, not for Antonio. 

Shylock. Nay, take my life and all ; pardon not that : 
You take my house when you do take the prop 
That doth sustain my house ; you take my life 
When you do take the means whereby I live. 

Portia. What mercy can you render him, Antonio? 

Gratiano. A halter gratis ; nothing else, for God's sake. 

Antonio. So please my lord the duke and all the court 
To quit the fine for one half of his goods, 
I am content ; so he will let me have 
The other half in use, 54 to render it, 
Upon his death, unto the gentleman 
That lately stole his daughter : 
Two things provided more, that, for this favour. 
He presently become a Christian ; 
The other, that he do record a gift, 
Herein the court, of all he dies possess'd, 
Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 459 

Duke. He shall do this, or else I do recant 
The pardon that I late pronounced here. 

Portia. Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say? 

Shylock. I am content. 

Portia. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 

Shylock. I pray you, give me leave to go from hence ; 
I am not well : send the deed after me, 
And I will sign it. 

Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. 

Gratiano. In christening shalt thou have two godfathers ; 
Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, 55 
To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. [Exit Shylock. 

Duke. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. 

Portia. I humbly do desire your grace of pardon: 
I must away this night toward Padua, 
And it is meet I presently set forth. 

Duke. I am sorry that your leisure serves you not. 56 
Antonio, gratify 57 this gentleman, 
For, in my mind, you are much bound to him. 

\_Exeunt Duke and his train, 

Bassanio. Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend 
Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted 
Of grievous penalties ; in lieu whereof, 
Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, 
We freely cope 58 your courteous pains withal. 59 

Antonio. And stand indebted, over and above, 
In love and service to you evermore. 

Portia. He is well paid that is well satisfied ; 
And I, delivering you, am satisfied 
And therein do account myself well paid : 
My mind was never yet more mercenary. 60 
I pray you, know me when we meet again : 
I wish you well, and so I take my leave. 

Bassanio. Dear sir, of force 6l I must attempt 62 you further : 
Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute 
Not as a fee : grant me two things, I pray you, 
Not to deny me, and to pardon me. 

Portia. You press me far, and therefore I will yield. 
[To Antonio] Give me your gloves, Til wear them for your sake ; 
[To Bassanio] And, for your love, I'll take this ring from you : 



460 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Do not draw back your hand ; Til take no more ; 
And you in love shall not deny me this. 

Bassanio. This ring, good sir, alas, it is a trifle ! 
I will not shame myself to give you this. 

Portia. I will have nothing else but only this ; 
And now methinks I have a mind to it. 

Bassanio. There's more depends on this than on the value. 
The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, 
And find it out by proclamation : 
Only for this, I pray you, pardon me. 

Portia. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers : 
You taught me first to beg ; and now methinks 
You teach me how a beggar should be answer'd. 

Bassanio. Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife; 
And when she put it on, she made me vow 
That I should neither sell nor give nor lose it. 

Portia. That 'scuse 3 serves many men to save their gifts. 
An if 64 your wife be not a mad-woman, 
And know how well I have deserved the ring, 
She would not hold out enemy for ever, 
For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you ! 

[Exeunt Portia and Nerissa. 

Antonio. My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring : 
Let his deservings and my love withal 
Be valued 'gainst your wife's commandment. 

Bassanio. Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him ; 
Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst, 

Unto Antonio's house : away ! make haste. \_Exit Gratiano. 

Come, you and I will thither presently; 
And in the morning early will we both 
Fly toward Belmont : come, Antonio. \_Exeunt. 



Scene II. The same. A street. 

Enter Portia and Nerissa. 

Portia. Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed 
And let him sign it : we'll away to-night 
And be a day before our husbands home : 
This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 



461 



Enter Gratiano. 

Gratiano. Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en : 
My Lord Bassanio upon more advice l 
Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat 
Your company at dinner. 

Portia. That cannot be : 

His ring I do accept most thankfully: 
And so, I pray you, tell him : furthermore, 
I pray you, show my youth old Shylock's house. 

Gratiano. That will I do. 

Nerissa. Sir, I would speak with you. 

{Aside to Portia] Til see if I can get my husband's ring, 
Which I did make him swear to keep for ever. 

Portia. {Aside to Nerissa] Thou may'st, I warrant. We shall 
have old swearing 2 
That they did give the rings away to men ; 
But well outface them, and outswear them too. 
{Aloud'] Away ! make haste : thou know'st where I will tarry. 

Nerissa. Come, good sir, will you shew me to this house? 

{Exeunt. 

ACT V. 
Scene I. Belmont. Aventie to Portia's house. 

Enter Lorenzo and Jessica. 

Lorenzo. The moon shines bright : in such a night as this, 
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees 
And they did make no noise, in such a night 
Troilus x methinks mounted the Troyan walls 
And sigh'd his soul tow r ard the Grecian tents, 
Where Cressid lay that night. 

Jessica. In such a night 

Did Thisbe 2 fearfully o'ertrip the dew 
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself 
And ran dismay'd away. 

Lorenzo. In such a night 

Stood Dido 3 with a willow in her hand 
Upon the wild sea banks and wav'd her love 
To come again to Carthage. 



462 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Jessica. In such a night 

Medea 4 gathered the enchanted herbs 
That did renew old ^son. 

Lorenzo. In such a night 

Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew 
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice 
As far as Belmont. 

Jessica. In such a night 

Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well, 
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith 
And ne'er a true one. 

Lorenzo. In such a night 

Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, 
Slander her love, and he forgave it her. 

Jessica. I would out-night 5 you, did no body come ; 
But, hark, I hear the footing of a man. 

Enter Stephano. 

Lorenzo. Who comes so fast in silence of the night? 

Stephano. A friend. 

Lorenzo. A friend ! what friend? your name, I pray you, friend? 

Stephano. Stephano is my name ; and I bring word 
My mistress will before the break of day 
Be here at Belmont : she doth stray about 
By holy crosses, 6 where she kneels and prays 
For happy wedlock hours. 

Lorenzo. Who comes with her? 

Stephano. None but a holy hermit and her maid. 
I pray you, is my master yet return'd ? 

Lorenzo. He is not, nor we have not heard from him. 
But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, 
And ceremoniously let us prepare 
Some welcome for the mistress of the house. 

Enter Launcelot. 
Launcelot. Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola! 
Lorenzo. Who calls? 

Launcelot. Sola! did you see Master LorenzO? Master Lo- 
renzo, sola, sola ! 
Lorenzo. Leave hollaing, man : here. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 4^3 

Launcelot. Sola! where? where? 

Lorenzo. Here. 

Launcelot. Tell him there's a post come from my master, with 
his horn full of good news : my master will be here ere morning. 

{Exit. 

Lorenzo. Sweet sou2, let's in, and there expect 7 their coming. 
And yet no matter : why should we go in ? 
My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you, 
Within the house, your mistress is at hand ; 

And bring your music forth into the air. {Exit Stephano. 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears : soft stillness and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines 8 of bright gold : 
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 9 
Still quiring IO to the young-eyed cherubins ; 
Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 

Enter Musicians. 
Come, ho! and wake Diana 11 with a hymn : 
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear 
And draw her home with music. {Music. 

Jessica. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. 

Lorenzo. The reason is,, your spirits are attentive : 
For do but note a wild and wanton herd, 
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, 
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, 
Which is the hot condition of their blood ; 
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, 
Or any air of music touch their ears, 
You shall perceive them make a mutual I2 stand, 
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze 
By the sweet power of music : therefore the poet 
Did feign that Orpheus I3 drew trees, stones and floods ; 
Since nought so stockish, 14 hard and full of rage, 



464 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

But music for the time doth change his nature. 

The man that hath no music in himself, 

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 

Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils ; l5 

The motions of his spirit are dull as night 

And his affections dark as Erebus : l6 

Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music. 

Enter Portia and Nerissa. 

• Portia. That light we see is burning in my hall. 
How far. that little candle throws its beams ! 
So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 

Nerissa. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. 

Portia. So doth the greater glory dim the less : 
A substitute shines brightly as a king 
Until a king be by, and then his state 
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook 
Into the main of waters. Music! hark! 

Nerissa. It is your music, madam, of the house. 

Portia. Nothing is good, I see, without respect : 1? 
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day. 

Nerissa. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam. 

Portia. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark 
When neither is attended, 18 and I think 
The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 
When every goose is cackling, would be thought 
No better a musician than the wren. 
How many things by season season'd are ig 
To their right praise and true perfection ! 
Peace, ho ! the moon sleeps with Endymion 20 
And would not be awaked. \Music ceases 

Lorenzo. That is the voice. 

Or I am much deceived, of Portia. 

Portia. He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo, 
By the bad voice. 

Lorenzo. Dear lady, welcome home. 

Portia. We have been praying for our husbands 1 healths, 
Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. 
Are they return 1 d? 

Lorenzo. Madam, they are not yet ; 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 465 

But there is come a messenger before, 
To signify their coming. 

Portia. Go in, Nerissa; 

Give order to my servants that they take 
No note at all of our being absent hence ; 
Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you. \A tucket 7,1 - sounds. 

Lorenzo. Your husband is at hand ; I hear his trumpet : 
We are no tell-tales, madam ; fear you not. 

Portia. This night methinks is but the daylight sick ; 
It looks a little paler : 'tis a day, 
Such as the day is when the sun is hid. 

Enter Bassanio, Antonio, Gratiano, and their followers. 

Bassanio. We should hold day with the Antipodes, 
If you would walk in absence of the sun. 22 

Portia. Let me give light, but let me not be light ; 
For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, 
And never be Bassanio so for me : 
But God sort all ! 23 You are welcome home, my lord. 

Bassanio. I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend. 
This is the man, this is Antonio, 
To whom I am so infinitely bound. 

Portia. You should in all sense 24 be much bound to him, 
For, as I hear, he was much bound for you. 

Antonio. No more than I am well acquitted of. 

Portia. Sir, you are very welcome to our house : 
It must appear in other ways than words, 
Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. 25 

Gratiano. [To Nerissa] 26 By yonder moon I swear you do 
me wrong ; 
In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk : 
Would he were dead that had it, for my part, 
Since you do take it, love, so much to heart. 

Portia. A quarrel, ho, already! what's the matter? 

Gratiano. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring 
That she did give me, whose posy 27 was 
For all the world like cutler's poetry 
Upon a knife, " Love me, and leave me not." 

Nerissa. What talk you of the posy or the value? 
You swore to me, when I did give it you, 



466 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

That you would wear it till your hour of death 
And that it should lie with you in your grave : 
Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths, 
You should have been respective 2S and have kept it. 
Gave it a judge's clerk ! no, God's my judge, 
The clerk will ne'er wear hair on's face that had it. 

Gratiano. He will, an if he live to be a man. 

Nerissa. Ay, if a woman live to be a man. 

Gratiano. Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth, 
A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy, 
No higher than thyself, the judge's clerk, 
A prating boy, that begg'd it as a fee : 
I could not for my heart deny it him. 

Portia. You were to blame, I must be plain with you. 
To part so slightly with your wife's first gift ; 
A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger 
And so riveted with faith unto your flesh. 
I gave my love a ring and made him swear 
Never to part with it ; and here he stands ; 
I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it 
Nor pluck it from his finger, for the wealth 
That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano, 
You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief: 
An 'twere to me, I should be mad at it. 

Bassanio. [Aside] Why, I were best to cut my left hand off 
And swear I lost the ring defending it. 

Gratiano. My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away 
Unto the judge that begg'd it and indeed 
Deserved it too : and then the boy, his clerk, 
That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine; 
And neither man nor master would take aught 
But the two rings. 

Portia. What ring gave you, my lord? 

Not that, I hope, which you received of me. 

Bassanio. If I could add a lie unto a fault, 
I would deny it ; but you see my finger 
Hath not the ring upon it ; it is gone. 

Portia. Even so void is your false heart of truth. 
By heaven, I will never be your wife 
Until I see the ring. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 467 

Nerissa. No, nor I yours 

Till I again see mine. 

Bassanio. Sweet Portia, 

If you' did know to whom I gave the ring, 
If you did know for whom I gave the ring, 
And would conceive for what I gave the ring, 
And how unwillingly I left the ring, 
When nought would be accepted but the ring, 
Yon would abate the strength of your displeasure. 

Portia. If you had known the virtue of the ring, 29 
Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, 
Or your own honour to contain 30 the ring, 
You would not then have parted with the ring. 
What man is there so much unreasonable, 
If you had pleased to have defended it 
With any terms of zeal, wanted 31 the modesty 
To urge the thing held as a ceremony? 32 
Nerissa teaches me what to believe : 
I'll die fort but some woman had the ring. 

Bassanio. No, by my honour, madam, by my souL, 
No woman had it, but a civil doctor, 33 
Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me 
And begg'd the ring ; the which I did deny him 
And suffer'd him to go displeas'd away ; 
Even he that did uphold the very life 
Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady? 
I was enforc'd to send it after him ; 
I was beset with shame and courtesy ; 34 
My honour would not let ingratitude 
So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady; 
For, by these blessed candles of the night, 
Had you been there, I think you would have begg'd 
The ring of me to give the worthy doctor. 

Portia. Let not that doctor e'er come near my house °. 
Since he hath got the jewel that I loved, 
And that which you did swear to keep for me, 
I will become as liberal as you ; 
I'll not deny him any thing I have. 

Antonio. I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels. 

Portia. Sir, grieve not you ; you are welcome notwithstanding. 



468 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Bassanio. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong*, 
And, in the hearing of these many friends, 
I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes, 
Wherein I see myself — 

Portia. Mark you but that ! 

In both my eyes he doubly sees himself; 
In each eye, one : swear by your double self, 
And there's an oath of credit. 

Bassanio. Nay, but hear me: 

Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear 
I never more will break an oath with thee. 

Antonio. I once did lend my body for his wealth ; 35 
Which, but for him that had your husband's ring, 
Had quite miscarried : I dare be bound again, 
My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord 
Will never more break faith advisedly. 36 

Portia. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this $ 
And bid him keep it better than the other. 

Antonio. Here, Lord Bassanio ; swear to keep this ringo 

Bassanio. By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor! 

Portia. You are all amazed : 
Here is a letter : read it at your leisure ; 
It comes from Padua, from Bellario : 
There you shall find that Portia was the doctor, 
Nerissa there her clerk : Lorenzo here 
Shall witness I set forth as soon as you 
And even but now return'd : I have not yet 
Enter'd my house. Antonio, you are welcome; 
And I have better news in store for you 
Than you expect : unseal this letter soon ; 
There you shall find three of your argosies 
Are richly 37 come to harbour suddenly : 38 
You shall not know by what strange accident 
I chanced on this letter. 

Antonio. I am dumb. 

Bassanio. Were you the doctor and I knew you not? 

Gratiano. Were you the clerk and yet I knew you not? 

Antonio. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living; 39 

For here I read for certain that my ships 
Are safely come to road. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 469 

Portia. How now, Lorenzo ! 

My clerk hath some good comforts too for you. 

Nerissa. Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee. 
There do I give to you and Jessica, 
From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, 
After his death, of all he dies possess'd of. 

Lorenzo. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way 
Of starved people. 

Portia. It is almost morning, 

And yet I am sure you are not satisfied 
Of these events at full. 4 ° Let us go in ; 
And charge us there upon inter'gatories, 
And we will answer all things faithfully. 4I 

Gratiano. Well, while I live I'll fear no other thing 
So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. [Exeunt. 



470 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

The essential thing in the drama is action. It is thus distinguished from 
the epic, which narrates heroic deeds, and from the lyric, which expresses 
intense emotion. The drama presents a series of grave or humorous incidents 
that terminate in a striking result. Its ultimate basis is found in our natural 
love of imitation; and hence it is not restricted to any race or age or country. 
India and China, Greece and Rome, no less than modern nations, delighted 
in dramatic exhibitions, and produced a notable dramatic literature. Ob- 
viously the drama is not inherently evil; and if it has often been con- 
demned by pagan sage and Christian teacher, the condemnation has been 
evoked by the degeneracy and dissoluteness of the stage. 

The principal species of the drama are tragedy and comedy. Tragedy 
represents an important and serious action, which usually has a fatal termi- 
nation; it appeals to the earnest side of our nature, and moves our deepest 
feelings. Comedy consists in a representation of light and amusing inci- 
dents; it exhibits the foibles of individuals, the manners of society, and the 
humorous accidents of life. The laws of the drama are substantially the 
same for both tragedy and comedy. There must be unity in the dramatic 
action. This requires that the separate incidents contribute in some way to 
the development of the plot and to the final result or denouement. A col- 
lection of disconnected scenes, no matter how interesting in themselves, 
would not make a drama. 

The action of the drama should exhibit movement or progress, in which 
several stages may be clearly marked. The introduction acquaints us, more 
or less fully, with the subject to be treated. It usually brings before us some 
of the leading characters, and shows us the circumstances in which they are 
placed. In the " Merchant of Venice," for example, the First Scene reveals 
Antonio's ventures at sea, and Bassanio's desire to woo the fair Portia, which 
facts furnish the basis of the subsequent action. After the introduction fol- 
lows the growth or development of the action toward the climax. From the 
days of Aristotle, this part of the drama has been called the tying of the 
knot, and it needs to be managed with great care. If the development is 
too slow, the interest lags; if too rapid, the climax appears tame. The inter- 
est of a drama depends in large measure upon the successful arrangement of 
the climax. In our best dramas it usually occurs near the middle of the piece. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 471 

In the " Merchant of Venice " it is reached in the Third Scene of the Third 
Act, where Antonio is in prison and Shylock will not hear of mercy. From 
this point the action proceeds to the close or denouement. The knot is un- 
tied ; the complications in which the leading characters have become involved 
are either happily removed, or lead to an inevitable catastrophe. Avoiding 
every digression, the action should go forward rapidly, in order not to weary 
the patience and dissipate the interest of the spectator. The denouement 
should not be dependent upon some foreign element introduced at the last 
moment; but should spring naturally from the antecedent action. 

In the " Merchant of Venice," the knot is untied at the end of the Fourth 
Act, where the over-reaching malice of Shylock meets its punishment, and 
the noble Antonio is triumphantly vindicated. But as Schlegel remarks, " the 
poet was unwilling to dismiss his audience with the gloomy impressions which 
Antonio's acquittal — effected with so much difficulty — and the condemna- 
tion of Shylock were calculated to leave behind them; he therefore added 
a Fifth Act by way of a musical afterlude to the piece itself." 

In addition to unity of action, which is obviously the indispensable law of 
the drama, two other unities have been prescribed from a very early day. 
The one is unity of time, which requires that the action fall within the 
limits of a single day; the other is unity of place, which requires that the 
action occur in the same locality. While evidently artificial and dispensable, 
these latter unities conduce to clear and concise treatment. Among the 
Greeks and Romans the three unities, as they are called, were strictly 
observed; they have been followed also by the French drama; but the Eng- 
lish stage, breaking away in the days of Elizabeth from every artificial restric- 
tion, recognizes unity of action alone. The " Merchant of Venice " includes 
a period of three months. 

Act I. — Scene I. 

1. In sooth = in truth. A. S. soth, truth. Q{. forsooth, soothsayer. 

2. Want-wit = foolish, idiotic. This unaccountable sadness of Antonio 
has been called the keynote of the play. It forbodes coming disaster. 

3. Ado = trouble. Contraction of Mid. Eng. at do. 

4. Argosies = merchant vessels. From Argo, the name of the ship 
which carried Jason to Colchis in search of the Golden Fleece. 

5. Signiors = lords. From Lat. senior, elder, through the Italian. 

6. Pageants = shows, spectacles. Originally the movable scaffolds used 
in the miracle plays. 

7. Overpeer = tower above, look over. 

8. Venture = hazard, risk; especially, something sent to sea in trade. 
Etymologically, a headless form of adventure. 

9. Still = constantly. 



472 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

io. Roads = places where ships ride at anchor. A. S. rad, road. 

11. Wealthy Andrew doch'd in sand = richly freighted ship stranded. 
The name is probably taken from Andrea Doria, a famous Genoese admiral. 

12. Vailing = lowering. A headless form of the Fr. avaler, from Lat. 
ad vallem, to the valley. 

13. Straight = at once, immediately. A. S. streccan, to stretch. 

14. Worth this refers to some expressive gesture. 

15. Bottom = merchant vessel. 

16. Janus = a Latin deity represented with two faces looking in oppo- 
site directions. January is named after him. See Webster. 

17. Peep through their eyes, because half shut with laughter. 

18. Other = others; frequently used as a plural in Shakespeare. 

19. Nestor = the gravest and oldest of the Grecian heroes at the siege of 
Troy. 

20. Prevented — anticipated. This is the old sense; ixovaY-x. prevenir, 
Lat. prae, before, and venire, to come. 

21. Exceeding strange = exceedingly strange-like, quite strangers. Ex- 
ceeding is often used as an adverb by Shakespeare. 

22. Respect upon = regard, consideration for. 

23. Play the fool = act the part of the fool, as seen in old comedies. 
His function was to show the comic side of things. 

24. Mantle == become covered, as with a mantle. 

25. Do has who understood as its subject. The whole line may be ren- 
dered thus: And who do maintain an obstinate silence. 

26. Opinion of wisdom = reputation for wisdom. 

27. Conceit = thought. In Shakespeare this word is used for thought ', 
conception, imagination, but never in the sense of vanity. 

28. As who should say = as if one should say; who being indefinite. 

29. A reference to Matt. v. 22. "Whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall 
be in danger of hell fire." If these silent persons should speak, they would 
provoke their hearers to say "thou fool," and thus bring them into danger 
of condemnation. 

30. Gudgeon = a small fish that is easily caught. See Webster. 

31. Moe = more. 

32. Gear = matter, business, purpose. In Act II, Scene 2, we find: 
"Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear." 

33. Something = somewhat. This use is common in Shakespeare. 

34. Swelling port = great state, ostentatious manner of living. 

35. Rate = manner, style. 

36. Gag'd= engaged, pledged. 

37. Still = constantly. See note 9. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 473 

38. Within the eye of honour = within the range of what is honorable. 

39. Self- same flight = made for the same range, having the same length, 
weight, and feathering. 

40. Advised = careful, considerate. 

41. To find the other forth = to find the other out. 

42. Childhood proof '= test or experiment of childhood. 

43. Wilful = obstinate in extravagance. Owing to the obscurity, " wit- 
less " and " wasteful " have been suggested for wilful. 

44. That self way = that same way. This use of self is frequent in 
Shakespeare. 

45. Circumstance = circumlocution. 

46. In making question, etc. = in questioning my readiness to do my 
utmost for you. 

47. Prest= ready. 0. Fr. prest, now pr el, ready. 

48. Richly left= with a large inheritance. 

49. Sometimes = formerly. Sometimes and sometime were used indiffer- 
ently by Shakespeare in this sense. 

50. Nothing undervalued = not at all inferior. 

51. Brutus'' Portia. See Shakespeare's Julius Ccesar, in which Portia 
is a prominent character. 

52. Colchos' strand. Colchis was situated at the eastern extremity of the 
Black Sea. Thither, according to Grecian mythology, Jason was sent in 
quest of the golden fleece, which, though it was guarded by a sleepless 
dragon, he succeeded in obtaining. The Argonautic expedition is referred 
to again in Act III. Scene 2: " We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece." 

53. With one of them = as one of them. 

54. Thrift = success. 

55. Commodity = property, merchandise. 

56. Presently = instantly, immediately. 

57. Of my trust, etc. = on my credit as a merchant or as a personal 
favor. 

Scene II. 

1. Troth = truth, of which it is an old form. 

2. Nor refuse none. — We should now say, Nor refuse any. But the 
double negative had not yet disappeared from English in Shakespeare's day. 

3. level at = guess, aim at. 

4. Coll = wild, rough youth 

5. Appropriation = credit. 

6. County Palatine = Count Palatine. 



474 



ENGLISH LITER A TURE. 



7. Weeping philosopher = Heraclitus ; so called because he wept over the 
follies of mankind. Democritus, who laughed at them, was called "The 
laughing philosopher." 

8. By = of, about, concerning — a not unfrequent use of the word. 

9. Say to is here playfully used in a different sense from that which 
Nerissa meant. 

10. Proper = handsome. 

11. Suited = dressed. 

12. Doublet = a close-fitting coat, with skirts reaching a little below the 
girdle. 

13. Round hose = coverings for the legs. Doublet and hose is equivalent 
to coat and breeches. 

14. Bonnet = hat or head-dress. Since Shakespeare's day bonnet and 
hat have changed places. 

15. Sealed under, that is, as surety he placed his name tinder that of the 
principal. There seems to be a sly hit at the constant assistance which the 
French promised the Scotch in their quarrels with the English. 

16. An = if. 

17. Should = would. These words were not fully differentiated by 
Shakespeare. 

18. Contrary = wrong. So in "King John," IV. 2: " Standing on slip- 
pers which his nimble haste had falsely thrust upon contrary feet." 

19. Sort = manner; or, possibly, lot, as in "Troilus and Cressida," I. 3: 
" Let blockish Ajax draw the sort to fight with Hector." 

20. Imposition = imposed condition. 

21. Sibylla is erroneously used as a proper noun. A sibyl was a woman 
supposed to be endowed with a spirit of prophecy. The reference here is to 
one to whom Apollo promised as many years of life as there were grains of 
sand in her hand. 

22. Four is probably an oversight, as there were six of the strangers. 

23. Condition = disposition, temper. This is a common meaning of the 
word in Shakespeare. 

24. Shrive = to administer confession and absolution. 

Scene III. 

I. Ducats =■ coins first issued in the duchy of Apulia. From O. Fr. 
ducat = Ital. ducato = ~Low Lat. dttcatus, duchy. So called because when 
first coined, about A.D. 1 140, they bore the legend, " Sit tibi, Christe, datus, 
quern tu regis, iste ducatus." — Skeat. The Venetian silver ducat was worth 
about one dollar. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 4/5 

2. May you stead me = can you help me. May originally expressed 
ability. 

3. A good man = a solvent man, one able to meet his obligations. 

4. In supposition = in doubtful form, being risked at sea. 

5. Rialto = the Exchange of Venice. From rivo alto, higher shore. 
The name was originally applied to the chief island in Venice. 

6. Squandered = scattered, dispersed; this was the original sense of the 
word. 

7. Referring to the permission given the devils to enter into the herd of 
swine. Matt. viii. 32. 

8. Usance = interest. 

9. Catch upon the hip = to get into one's power; a phrase used by 
wrestlers. 

10. Interest was a term of reproach in Shakespeare's day, as usury is 
now. It was held disreputable to take compensation for the use of money, 
inasmuch, as it was said, "it is against nature for money to beget money." 

11. Rest you fair = may you have fair fortune. 

12. Excess = that which is paid in excess of the sum lent. 

13. Ripe wants == wants that require immediate attention. 

14. Possessed = informed. 

15. Methough t = it seemed to me. From A. S. thincan == to seem. 
To think comes from A. S. thencan. 

16. The third, counting Abraham as the first. Gen. xxvii. 

17. Compromised = agreed. 

18. Eanling = lamb just brought forth. Yeanling is another form of 
the word. From A. S. eanian, to bring forth. 

19. See Gen. xxx. 31-43. 

20. Inserted, that is, in the Scriptures. 

21. These lines are spoken aside, while Shylock is occupied with his 
calculations. 

22. Beholding = beholden, indebted. Shakespeare always uses the form 
in ing, beholden occurring not a single time in his writings. 

23. Gaberdine = a coarse smock-frock or upper garment. 

24. Go to = come; a phrase of exhortation. 

25. Breed = interest, money bred horn the principal. 

26. Who is here without a verb. This use of the relative with a supple- 
mentary pronoun was not uncommon. " Which though it be not true, yet I 
forbear to note any deficiencies." — Bacon. 

27. Doit = a small Dutch coin, worth about a quarter of a cent. 

28. Condition = agreement. 

29. Eqzial = exact, equally balanced. 



476 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

30. Dwell = continue, abide. 

31. Teaches is usually regarded as a mistake, having the plural subject 
dealings. But Abbott regards it as an old Northern plural, which ended in es. 

32. Break his day = fail to fulfil his engagement. 

33. Fearful guard = protection to be feared. 

34. Hie = haste. 

ACT II. — Scene I. 

1. Mislike = dislike, which Shakespeare commonly uses. Mislike is 
found only three times. 

2. Whose blood is reddest. — Red blood was regarded as a sign of cour- 
age. Macbeth calls one of his frightened soldiers a " lily-livered 'boy." 

3. Feared = terrified. Fear was often used transitively in this sense. 

4. Best-regarded = most esteemed. 

5. Nice = fastidious, fanciful. She intimates that judgment has some- 
thing to do with her choice. 

6. Scanted = limited, restricted. 

7. JFit= wisdom. A. S. witan, to know. "Will" has been sug- 
gested as an emendation. 

8. Stood = would stand. 

9. Sophy = a common name for the emperor of Persia. 

10. Stdtan Solyman. — Probably Solyman the Magnificent, who reigned 
from 1520 to 1566. 

11. Lichas was the servant of Hercules. 

12. Alcides = another name for Hercules. So called because a descen- 
dant of Alceus. 

13. Advised ' = deliberate, careful. 

14. Temple = church, in which the prince was to take the oath just 
spoken of. 

Scene II. 

1. Via = away! Italian, from Lat. via, a way. 

2. For the heavens = for Heaven's sake. 

3. Grow to = "a household phrase applied to milk when burnt to the 
bottom of the saucepan, and thence acquiring an unpleasant taste." — Clark 
and Wright. 

4. God bless the mark = a parenthetic apology for some coarse or pro- 
fane remark. 

5. Incarnal = incarnate; intended as a ludicrous blunder. A number 
of others occur in this scene. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 477 

6. Sand-blind = having a defect of sight, causing the appearance ol 
small particles flying before the eyes. " High-gravel-blind " is an effort 
at wit. 

7. Confusions = conclusions; another Gobboism. " To try conclu- 
sions " means to make experiments. 

8. Marry = a corruption of Mary; originally a mode of swearing by 
the Virgin, but here a mere expletive. 

9. Sonties = saints, of which it is probably a corruption. 

10. Raise the waters = raise a storm or commotion. 

11. Master was a title of respect that meant something in Shakespeare's 
day; hence Gobbo scruples to bestow it upon his son. 

12. What a? will = what he will. 

13. Ergo = therefore. 

14. An't = An it; that is, if it. 

15. Father. — As young people often used this term of address in speak- 
ing to old men, Gobbo did not recognize his son. 

16. Hovel-post = a post to support a hovel or shed. 

17. Stand up. — Launcelot had been kneeling, and, according to an old 
tradition, with his back to his father, who mistook the hair of his head for a 
beard. 

18. Fill-horse = thill-horse, the horse that goes between the thills or 
shafts. 

19. Set up my rest = made up my mind. "A metaphor taken from a 
game, where the highest stake the parties were disposed to venture was 
called the rest." 

20. Give me. — The vie is a dative of indirect personal reference, called 
in Latin the dativus ethicus. 

21. Graviercy = great thanks. A corruption of the French grand vierci. 

22. Infection = affection or inclination : another Gobboism. 

23. Cater --cousins = an expression of difficult explanation. Commonly 
regarded as a corruption of the French quatre-cousins, fourth cousins. 

24. Frutify = certify, the word aimed at. 

25. Impertinent = pertinent, as he means. 

26. Defect = effect. 

27. Preferr' 'd = recommended for promotion. 

28. The old proverb = " The grace of God is gear enough." 

29. Guarded ' = braided, trimmed. 

30. Table = palm of the hand, on which Launcelot is gazing. As 
Hudson explains, this " table doth not only promise, but offer to swear upon 
a book, that I shall have good fortune." 

31. Line of life = the line passing around the base of the thumb. 



478 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

32. Edge of a feather-bed = an absurd variation of " edge of the sword.' 5 

33. Liberal = free, reckless. 

34. Skipping = frolicsome. 

35. With my hat. — Hats were worn at meals; but while grace was say- 
ing, they were taken off and held over the eyes. 

36. Civility = refinement. 

37. Sad ostent = grave demeanor. 

Scene III. 
I. Exhibit = inhibit, as he means. 

Scene IV. 

1 . Spoke as yet, etc. == bespoken torch-bearers for us. 

2. A11 = if. 

3. Break up = break open. 

4. Provideth of ' = provided with. The prepositions of, with, and by were 
often used interchangeably. 

Scene V. 

1. Bid forth = invited out. 

2. Reproach = approach — a Gobboism. 

3. Black- Moiiday. " In the 34th of Edward III., the 13th of April, 
and the morrow after Easter-day, King Edward, with his host, lay before the 
city of Paris; which day was full of dark mist and- hail, and so bitter cold, 
that many men died on their horses' backs with the cold. Wherefore unto 
this day it hath been called Black- Monday.'''' — Stowe, as quoted by Hudson. 

4. Fife = fifer, probably. A writer in 16 1 8 says: "A fifer is a wry- 
neckt musician." 

5. Jacob'' s staff . — " By faith Jacob, when he was a dying, blessed both 
the sons of Joseph; and worshipped, leaning upon the top of his staff." 
Heb. xi. 21. 

6. Of feasting = for feasting. 

7. Hagar's offspring = Gentiles. 

8. Patch = professional jester or fool; so called from his motley or 
patched dress. 

Scene VI. 

1. Out-dwells = out-stays. 

2. Venus' pigeons. — The chariot of Venus was drawn by doves. 

3. Obliged = pledged, bound by contract. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 479 

4. Scarfed '= decked with flags. 

5. Over-weather' 'd ' — weather-beaten. 

6. Abode = tarrying. 

7. ^/z<? = whom. Shakespeare often omits the inflection. 

8. Exchange, that is, of apparel. 

9. Good sooth = in good truth. 

10. Close = secret. 

11. Beshrew me = curse me, used as a mild imprecation. 

12. On't= of it. 

Scene VII. 

1. Who = which. In the Elizabethan age, who and which were not 
fully differentiated. Which was often used of persons, as who of things. 
*' Our Father which art in heaven." Matt. vi. 9. 

2. As blunt, that is, as the " dull lead." 

3. Rated by thy estimation = valued by thy reputation. 

4. Disabling = disparaging. 

5. This shrine. — Portia is compared to a saint's shrine, which pilgrims 
often made long journeys to kiss. 

6. Hyrcanian deserts = an extended wilderness region lying south of 
the Caspian Sea. 

7. Ten times undervalued. — This refers to silver, which in 1600 stood 
to gold in the proportion of ten to one in value. 

8. Insculp'd tipon = graven on the outside. The angel was in relief, 
and represented St. Michael piercing the dragon. The value of the coin was 
about ten shillings. 

9. Carrion Death = a skull from which the flesh has disappeared. 
10. Fart = depart. 

Scene VIII. 

1. Passion = passionate outcry. 

2. Keep his day, that is, the day fixed for the payment of the borrowed 
money. 

3. Reason , d^= talked, conversed. 

4. You were best = it were best for you. 

5. Slubber = do carelessly, slur over. 

6. Riping= ripeness. 

7. Mind of love = loving mind. 

8. Ostents= manifestations. 

9. Conveniently = fitly, suitably. 

10. Sensible = sensitive, deeply moved. 



48o 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



11. Quicken his embraced heaviness = enliven the sadness which he has 
embraced or given up to. 

12. Do we so = let us do so. This is an imperative, 1st person, plural. 

Scene IX. 

1. Straight— straightway, at once. 

2. Election = choice. 

3. Addressed me = prepared myself, made ready. 

4. Fortune now, etc. = Success now to my heart's hope ! 

5. By = of. These two prepositions were not yet fully differentiated. 

6. Martlet = the house-martin. 

7. Jump with = agree with. 

8. Ruin = refuse, rubbish. 

9. To offend, and judge, etc. That is, the offender cannot sit in judg- 
ment on his own case. 

10. Iwis= I know. This is a blunder form for ywis, iwis, meaning 
certainly. "It is particularly to be noted," says Skeat, "that the commonest 
form in MSS. is iwis, in which the prefix (like most other prefixes) is fre- 
quently written apart from the rest of the word, and not unfrequently the i 
is represented by a capital letter so that it appears as / wis. Hence, by an 
extraordinary error, the / has often been mistaken for the 1st per. pron., and 
the verb wis, to know, has been thus created, and is given in many 
dictionaries ! ' ' 

11. You are sped= you are undone. 

12. By the time = in proportion to the time. 

13. Wroth = suffering, misery. 

14. My lord is in jesting response to the servant's inquiry, " Where is 
my lady ? ' ' 

15. Sensible regreets = tangible or substantial greetings. 

16. Commends = compliments. 

17. Yet = up to this time. 

18. Post = postman, courier. 

19. Lord Love = Cupid. 

ACT III. — Scene I. 

1. The Goodwins = the Goodwin Sands, off the eastern coast of Kent. 

2. Knapped ginger — snapped or broke-up ginger — a favorite condi- 
ment with old people. 

3. Wings she flew withal = the clothes in which she eloped. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 481 

4. Complexion = natural disposition. 

5. Match = bargain. 

6. Smtig=- spruce, trim, studiously neat. 

7. Hindered me, etc. = kept me from gaining half a million ducats. 

8. Frankfort '= Frankfort-on-the-Maine, noted for its fairs. 

9. /;z that = in that one diamond. 

10. Turquoise = a mineral, brought from Persia, of a peculiar bluish- 
green color, susceptible of a high polish, and much esteemed as a gem. It 
was formerly supposed to fade or brighten with the wearer's health, and to 
change with the decay of a lover's affection. 

Scene II. 

1. Forsworn = perjured. 

2. Beshrew = curse upon — used as a harmless imprecation. 

3. Cerlook'd me — bewitched, fascinated me. 

4. Prove it so — if it prove so. 

5. Peize = retard, delay. From Fr. peser, to weigh. 

6. Fear= doubt; that is, whether I shall ever enjoy. 

7. Swan-like end. — An allusion to the belief that swans sing just before 
they die. 

8. Flourish. — The coronation of English sovereigns is announced by a 
flourish of trumpets. 

9. Alcides = Hercules. He rescued Hesione, daughter of Laomedon, 
when she was exposed as a sacrifice to appease the wrath of Neptune; and 
this he did, not from love, but for the reward of two horses promised by her 
father. 

10. Dardanian wives ■ = Trojan women. 

11. App rove — prove, justify. 

12. His = its. 

13. Livers white as milk = an expression indicative of cowardice. Fal- 
staff speaks of " the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pussillanimity 
and cowardice." 

14. Excrement = the beard. From Lat. excrescere, to grow out. 

15. Supposed fairness = fictitious beauty. 

16. Guiled = beguiling. 

17. Indian beauty. — This has been regarded a troublesome expression. 
"Dowdy," "gypsy," "favor," "visage," "feature," have been suggested 
in place of beauty. The difficulty seems to be removed by placing the em- 
phasis on Indian, and regarding it as used in a derogatory sense. An Indian 
beauty, after all, is not apt to be a very desirable person. 



482 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

1 8. Food for Midas. Midas prayed that everything he touched might 
turn to gold. His prayer being granted, he found himself without food, and 
prayed Bacchus to revoke the favor. 

19. Counterfeit = portrait. 

20. Leave itself ' unfumish' 'd, that is, with a companion. 

21. Continent = that which contains, container. 

22. I come by note — I come by written warrant. 

23. Ln a prize = for a prize. 

24. Livings — estates, possessions. 

25. Vantage to exclaim on yon = warrant to cry out against you. 

26. lYojie from Die— none away from me. 

27. So = if, provided that. 

28. Intermission = pause, delay. 

29. Lf promise last = if promise hold ; a play on words, often weak, so 
common in Shakespeare. 

30. Very =true. O. Fr. verai, from Lat. verax, true. 

31. Him = himself. 

32. Estate = condition, state. 

33. Shrewd '= evil. 

34. Constant = firm, steadfast. 

35. Mere = absolute, thorough. Lat. merus, pure, unmixed. 

36. Should appear = would appear. 

37. Confound = ruin, destroy. 

38. Impeach the freedom, etc. = denies that strangers have equal rights 
in the city. 

39. Magnificoes of greatest port = grandees of highest rank. 

40. Envious plea = malicious plea. 

41. Best-condition^ d = best disposed. The superlative here is carried 
over also to unwearied. 

42. Cheer = countenance. 

43. You and I. This mistake is not uncommon in Shakespeare and 
other writers of the time. 

Scene III. 

1. Fond = foolish. This is the original sense of the word. 

2. To come = as to come. 

3. Dull-eyed — stupid, wanting in perception. 

4. Kept = dwelt. 

5. Deny the course of law = refuse to let the law take its course. 

6. Commodity = traffic, commercial relations. 

7. Bated— lowered, reduced. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 



Scene IV. 



483 



1. Conceit = idea, conception. 

2. Lover — friend. A common signification. 

3. Customary bounty can enforce you = ordinary benevolence can 
make you feel. 

4. Husbandry and manage = stewardship and management. 

5. Imposition = task or duty imposed. 

6. Padua was famous for the learned jurists of its university. 

7. Imagined speed '= speed of thought or imagination. 

8. Tranect= the name of the place where "the common ferry" or 
ferry-boat set out for Venice. 

9. Convenient = proper, suitable. 

10. Reed voice = shrill, piping voice. 

1 1 . Quaint = ingenious, elaborate. 

12. / could not do withal '= I could not help it. 

13. Raw = crude, unskilful. 

14. Jacks = a common term of contempt. 

15. All my whole device. — A pleonasm not infrequent in Shakespeare. 

Scene V. 

1. Fear you = fear for you. 

2. Agitation = cogitation — another blunder of Launcelot's. 

3. Scylla = a rocky cape on the west coast of southern Italy. Chary bdis 
is a celebrated whirlpool on the opposite coast of Sicily. Hence the frequent 
saying, " He falls into Scylla who seeks to avoid Charybdis." 

4. I shall be saved, etc. — A reference, probably, to I Cor. vii. 14 : "The 
unbelieving wife is sanctified by the husband." 

5. Enow == enough. 

6. Rasher = a thin slice of bacon. 

7. Are out = have fallen out, quarrelled. 

8. / know my duty. — Launcelot plays on the double meaning of 
" cover," namely, to lay the table, and to put on one's hat. 

9. Quarrelling with occasion = using every opportunity to make per- 
verse replies. 

10. Discretion — discrimination. 

11. A many. — This phrase is still used, though rarely, by poets. It is 
found in Tennyson's " Miller's Daughter," and Rolfe quotes from Gerald 

Massey : — 

" We've known a many sorrows, Sweet ; 
We've wept a many tears." 



484 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

12. Garnish'' d '= furnished, equipped. 

13. Defy the matter = set the meaning at defiance, 

14. How cheer'' st thou = what spirits are you in? 

15. Set you forth = describe you fully. 

ACT IV.— Scene I. 

1. Uncapable. — Shakespeare uses also incapable. With a considerable 
number of words, the English prefix un and the Latin prefix in were used 
indifferently; as, uncertain, incertain; ungrateful, ingrateful. 

2. Qualify = modify, moderate. 

3. And that = and since. It is not unusual for the Elizabethan writers 
to use that in place of repeating a preceding conjunction. " Though my soul 
be guilty and that I think," etc. — Ben Jonson. 

4. Envy's reach = reach of hatred or malice. Envy frequently had this 
meaning in Shakespeare's time. In Mark xv. 10 we read: "For he knew 
that the chief priests had delivered him for envy.'' 

5. Remorse •= pity, relenting — a common meaning in the age of Eliza- 
beth. 

6. Where = whereas. 

7. Loose = release, give up. 

8. Moiety = portion, share, as often in Shakespeare. According to its 
etymology, it strictly means a half. From Fr. moitie, half. 

9. Charter. — Shakespeare seems to have supposed that Venice held a 
charter from the German Emperor, which might be revoked for any flagrant 
act of injustice. 

10. A gaping pig ■= a pig's head as roasted for the table. 

11. Passion == feeling, 

12. Loag , d= fixed, abiding, 

13. Current = course. 

14. Think you question = consider that you are arguing. 

15. Main flood = ocean tide. 

16. Fretten = fretted. 

17. With all brief and plain conveniency = " with such brevity and 
directness as befits the administration of justice." — Wright. 

18. Have judgment '= receive sentence. 

19. Tarts = offices, employments. 

20. Upon my power = by virtue of my prerogative. We still say, "on 
my authority." 

21. Determine = decide. 

22. Hangman = executioner. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 485 

23. Envy = malice. See note 4. 

24. Wit = sense. 

25. Inexecrable = that cannot be execrated enough. Another reading is 
" inexorable." 

26. And for- thy life, etc. = let justice be impeached for allowing thee to 
live. 

27. Pythagoras. — A philosopher of the sixth century B.C., who taught the 
transmigration of souls. 

28. Who, hanged, etc. Another instance of the suspended nominative. 

29. Fell= fierce, cruel. A. S. fel, cruel. 

30. Fleet = flit, take flight. 

31. Offend' st = hurtest, annoyest. 

32. To fill tip = to fulfil. 

33. No impediment to let him lack = no hindrance to his receiving. 

34. Take your place, probably beside the duke. 

35. Question = trial. 

36. Such rule = such regular form. 

37. Impugn = oppose, controvert. 

38. Within his danger— within his power. 

39. Strain' 'd '= constrained, forced. 

40. Truth = honesty. 

41. A Daniel. — See the " History of Susanna " in the Apocrypha, where 
" the Lord raised up the holy spirit of a young youth, whose name was 
Daniel," to confound the two wicked judges. 

42. Hath full relation = is fully applicable. 

43. More elder. — Double comparatives were frequently used by the 
Elizabethan writers. 

44. Balance. — Though singular in form, it is used as a plural, as having 
two scales. 

45. On your charge = at your expense. 

46. Still her use = constantly her custom. 

47. Speak me fair in death = speak well of me when I am dead. 

48. With all i?iy heart. — There is pathos in this jest. 

49. A justpound= an exact pound. 

50. In the substance = in amount, in the gross weight. 

5 1 . Contrive = plot . 

52. Formerly = as aforesaid. 

53. Which humbleness, etc. = which humble supplication on your part 
may induce me to commute into a fine. 

54. In use = in trust. 

55. Ten more, that is, to make up twelve jurymen, who were jestingly 
called " godfathers-in-law." 



4o6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

56. Serves you not = is not at your disposal. 

57. Gratify = recompense. 

58. Cope— requite, repay. 

59. Withal = with; here used as a preposition governing ducats. 

60. More mercenary = desirous for more pay than the satisfaction of 
doing good. 

61. Of force = of necessity. 

62. Attempt = tempt. 

63. 'Sense = excuse. This shortened form occurs in only one other pas- 
sage in Shakespeare. 

64. An if= if; a pleonasm. 

Scene II. 

1. Upon more advice = upon further consideration. 

2. Old swearing. — "Old " was an intensive epithet in common use. 



ACT V. — Scene I. 

1. Troilus was a son of Priam, king of Troy. He loved Cressida, 
daughter of the Grecian soothsayer, Calchas. 

2. Thisbe was a beautiful Babylonian lady, with whom Pyramus was in 
love. They agreed to meet at the tomb of Ninus; but, on arriving there, 
Thisbe was frightened at the sight of a lioness that had just killed an ox. 
She fled, leaving her cloak behind. Pyramus, finding the cloak stained with 
blood, believed that a wild beast had killed her, and took his own life — an 
example which was followed by Thisbe. 

3. Dido was Queen of Carthage. She loved iEneas, by whom she was 
deserted. The " willow in her hand " was the symbol of unhappy love. 

4. Medea was the daughter of ^Fetes, king of Colchis. She assisted 
Jason in obtaining the Golden Fleece, and afterwards became his wife. She 
possessed magical powers, and in order to renew the youth of Aeson, the 
father of Jason, she boiled him in a caldron, into which she had cast "en- 
chanted herbs." 

5. Out-night you = beat you in this game of " In such a night." 

6. Holy crosses. — These were numerous in Italy, being found not only 
in churches, but along the roads. 

7. Expect '== await. 

8. Ratines = the plate used for the sacramental bread. It was some- 
times made of gold. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 4&7 

9. Like an angel sings. — A reference to " the music of the spheres." 

10. Quiring = singing in concert. 

11. Diana = the goddess of the moon. 

12. Mutual '= common. 

13. Orpheus = a Thracian poet who accompanied the Argonauts, and 
had the power of moving inanimate objects by the music of his lyre. 

14. Stockish = stupid, insensible. 

15. Spoils = robbery, acts of plundering. 

16. Erebus = the underworld, or region of the dead. 

17. Without respect = absolutely, independent of circumstances. 

18. Attended '= attended to, heard attentively. 

19. Season' 'd are = are made fit. 

20. Endymion. — In Greek mythology Silene, or the moon, is represented 
as charmed with the beauty of Endymion, whom she put to sleep on Mount 
Latmos, that she might nightly kiss him unobserved. 

21. Tticket — a flourish on a trumpet to announce an arrival. 

22. We should hold day, etc. = we should have day at the same time 
with the Antipodes, if you, Portia, would walk abroad at night in the absence 
of the sun. 

23. God sort all = God dispose or arrange all things. 

24. In all sense = in all reason. 

25. Breathing courtesy = courtesy consisting of mere breath or talk. 

26. Gratiano and Nerissa have been talking apart in dumb show. 

27. Posy = sentiment or motto inscribed on rings. A contraction of 
poesy. It was the custom to inscribe sentiments, usually in distichs, upon 
knives by means of aquafortis. 

28. Respective = mindful or regardful of your oath. 

29. The virtue of the ring = the power of the ring. It gave its posses- 
sor a right to Portia and all she had. 

30. Contain = retain. 

31. Wanted = as to have wanted; dependent on "so much un- 
reasonable." 

32. Ceremony = a sacred thing. 

33. Civil doctor = doctor of civil law. 

34. Shame and courtesy = shame at being thought ungrateful, and a 
sense of what courtesy required. 

35. Wealth = weal, prosperity. 

36. Advisedly = deliberately. 

37. Richly = richly laden. 

38. Suddenly = unexpectedly. 

39. Living = means of living, livelihood. 



488 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

40. Satisfied of these events at full = fully satisfied concerning these 
events. 

41. Charge us upon inter' gatories, etc. "In the Court of Queen's 
Bench, when a complaint is made against a person for a ' contempt,' the 
practice is that before sentence is finally pronounced he is sent into the 
Crown Office, and being there ' charged upon interrogatories,' he is made to 
swear that he will 'answer all things faithfully.' " 



SELECTIONS FROM CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 

(1625— 1660.) 

MILTON'S L' ALLEGRO. 

Hence, loathed Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, 

In Stygian cave forlorn, 

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy ! 
Find out some uncouth cell, 

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, 

And the night-raven sings : 
There, under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, 
As ragged as thy locks, 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 10 

But come, thou goddess fair and free, 
In Heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne, 
And by men, heart-easing Mirth ; 
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, 
With two sister Graces more, 
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore : 
Or whether, as some sager sing, 
The frolick wind, that breathes the spring, 
Zephyr, with Aurora playing, 

As he met her once a-Maying ; 20 

There on beds of violets blue, 
And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew, 
FilPd her with thee a daughter fair, 
So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest, and youthful jollity, 
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, 
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 

And love to live in dimple sleek ; 30 

Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Come, and trip it, as you go, 
On the light fantastick toe ; 
And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty ; 

489 



490 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And, if I give thee honour due, 

Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 

To live with her, and live with thee, 

In unreproved pleasures free ; 4 

To hear the lark begin his flight, 

And singing, startle the dull night, 

From his watch-tower in the skies, 

Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 

Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 

And at my window bid good morrow, 

Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, 

Or the twisted eglantine : 

While the cock, with lively din, 

Scatters the rear of darkness thin ; 50 

And to the stack, or the barn-door, 

Stoutly struts his dames before : 

Oft lisfning how the hounds and horn 

Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn, 

From the side of some hoar hill, 

Through the high wood echoing shrill : 

Some time walking, not unseen, 

By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 

Right against the eastern gate, 

Where the great sun begins his state 60 

Robed in flames, and amber light, 

The clouds in thousand liveries dight; 

While the plowman, near at hand, 

Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, 

And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 

And the mower whets his sithe, 

And every shepherd tells his tale 

Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
Whilst the landskip round it measures ; 70 

Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The lab 'ring clouds do often rest ; 
Meadows trim with daisies pide, 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide : 



L 'ALLEGRO. 491 



Towers and battlements it sees 

Bosom'd high in tufted trees, 

Where perhaps some beauty lies, 

The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 

From betwixt two aged oaks, 

Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, 

Are at their savoury dinner set 

Of herbs, and other country messes, 

Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 

And then in haste her bower she leaves, 

With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 

Or, if the earlier season lead, 

To the tann'd haycock in the mead. 

Sometimes with secure delight 

The upland hamlets will invite, 

When the merry bells ring round, 

And the jocund rebecks sound 

To many a youth, and many a maid, 

Dancing in the chequer'd shade ; 

And young and old come forth to play 

On a sunshine holyday, 

Till the livelong daylight fail : 

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 

With stories told of many a feat, 

How faery Mab the junkets ate : 

She was pinch'd and pull'd, she sed ; 

And he, by frier's lantern led, 

Tells how the drudging goblin swet, 

To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 

When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 

His shadowy flale hath threshed the corn, 

That ten day-labourers could not end : 

Then lies him down the lubbar fiend, 

And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, 

Basks at the fire his hairy strength ; 

And crop-full out of doors he flings, 

Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 

By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. 



492 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Tower'd cities please us then, 

And the busy hum of men, 

Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 

In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, 

With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 

Rain influence, and judge the prize 

Of wit or arms, while both contend 

To win her grace, whom all commend. 

There let Hymen oft appear 

In saffron robe, with taper clear, 

And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 

With mask, and antique pageantry ; 

Such sights as youthful poets dream 

On summer eves by haunted stream. 

Then to the well-trod stage anon, 

If Jonson 1 s learned sock be on ; 

Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child, 

Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever, against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 
Married to immortal verse ', 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 
In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning; 
The melting voice through mazes running, 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony ; 
That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains, as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half- regained Eurydice. 

These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 



IL PENSEROSO. 493 



IL PENSEROSO. 



Hence, vain deluding Joys, 

The brood of Folly without father bred ! 

How little you bested, 
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 
Dwell in some idle brain, 

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, 

As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the sun-beams ; 

Or likest hovering dreams, 
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 
But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy, 
Hail, divinest Melancholy ! 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight, 
And therefore to our weaker view 
O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue ; 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, 
Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 
The sea-nymphs', and their powers offended : 
Yet thou art higher far descended : 
Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore, 
To solitary Saturn bore ; 
His daughter she ; in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain : 
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 

Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, stedfast, and demure, 
All in a robe of darkest grain, 
Flowing with majestick train, 
And sable stole of Cypress lawn, 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 



494 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Come, but keep thy wonted state, 

With even step, and musing gait ; 

And looks commercing with the skies, 

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 

There, held in holy passion still, 

Forget thyself to marble, till 

With a sad leaden downward cast 

Thou fix them on the earth as fast : 

And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 

Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 

And hears the Muses in a ring 

Aye round about Jove's altar sing. 

And add to these retired Leisure, 

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure : 

But first and chiefest with thee bring, 

Him that yon soars on golden wing 

Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, 

The cherub Contemplation ; 

And the mute Silence hist along, 

'Less Philomel will deign a song, 

In her sweetest, saddest plight, 

Smoothing the rugged brow of night, 

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, 

Gently o'er the accustom'd oak : 

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, 

Most musical, most melancholy ! 

Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, 

I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 

And, missing thee, I walk unseen 

On the dry smooth-shaven green, 

To behold the wandering moon 

Riding near her highest noon, 

Like one that had been led astray 

Through the heaven's wide pathless way ; 

And oft, as if her head she bow'd, 

Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 

I hear the far-off curfeu sound, 

Over some wide-water'd shore, 

Swinging slow with sullen roar : 



IL PENSEROSO. 495 



Or, if the air will not permit, 

Some still removed place will fit, 

Where glowing embers through the room 

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 

Far from all resort of mirth, 

Save the cricket on the hearth, 

Or the bellman's drowsy charm, 

To bless the doors from nightly harm. 

Or let my lamp at midnight hour, 

Be seen in some high lonely tower/ 

Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, 

With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 

The spirit of Plato, to unfold 

What worlds or what vast regions hold 

The mortal mind, that hath forsook 

Her mansion in this fleshly nook : 

And of those demons that are found 

In fire, air, flood, or under ground, 

Whose power hath a true consent 

With planet, or with element. 

Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy 

In sceptred pall come sweeping by, 

Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 

Or the tale of Troy divine ; 

Or what, though rare, of later age 

Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. 

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Musaeus from his bower! 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes, as, warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, 
And made Hell grant what love did seek ! 
Or call up him that left half-told 
The story of Cambuscan bold, 
Of Camball and of Algarsife, 
And who had Canace to wife, 
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass ; 
And of the wondrous horse of brass, 
On which the Tartar king did ride : 
And if aught else great bards beside 



496 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 

Of turneys, and of trophies hung; 

Of forests and enchantments drear, 

Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120 

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, 
Till civil-suited Morn appear, 
Not trickM and frounced as she was wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt, 
But kercheft in a comely cloud, 
While rocking winds are piping loud, 
Or usher'd with a shower still, 
When the gust hath blown his fill, 
Ending on the rustling leaves, 

With minute drops from off the eaves. 13° 

And, when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves, 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 
Of pine, or monumental oak, 
Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, 
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, 
Or fright them from their hallowM haunt. 
There in close covert by some brook, 

Where no profaner eye may look, 14° 

Hide me from day's garish eye, 
While the bee with honied thigh, 
That at her flowery work doth sing, 
And the waters murmuring, 
With such consort as they keep, 
Entice the dewy-featherd sleep ; 
And let some strange mysterious Dream 
Wave at his wings in aery stream 
Of lively portraiture display'd, 

Softly on my eyelids laid : 150 

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 
Above, about, or underneath, 
Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, 
Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloysters pale, 



IL PENSEROSO. 497 



And love the high-embowed roof, 

With antick pillars massy proof, 

And storied windows richly dight, 

Casting a dim religious light: 

There let the pealing organ blow, 

To the full-voiced quire below, 

In service high, and anthems clear, 

As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 

Dissolve me into ecstasies, 

And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
The hairy gown and mossy cell, 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth shew, 
And every herb that sips the dew ; 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 



498 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO MILTON. 



(The numbers refer to lines. Consult Painter's " Elementary Guide to Literary 
Criticism/' particularly chapters VII and VIII.') 

The title D Allegro is from the Italian, and signifies " the cheerful man.' 5 

1. Melancholy — a gloomy state of mind. From Gr. melan, stem of 
melas, black, and chole, bile. Black bile was thought to cause a gloomy state 
of mind. 

2. Cerberus = the three-headed monster in the shape of a serpent-tailed 
dog, which, according to mythology, guarded the entrance to the infernal 
regions. The genealogy here given is Milton's own invention. 

3. Stygian = pertaining to the Styx, fabled by the ancients to be a river 
of hell, over which Charon rowed the souls of the dead; hence, hellish, in- 
fernal. — Forlorn = deserted; from A. S. for lot -en. Cf. Ger. verloren^ lost. 

5. Uncouth = hideous; from A. S. cunnan, to know, and the prefix tin. 
Literally, unknown. 

7. Night-raven = a bird of ill-omen that cries in the night. 

8. Ebon = dark or black. This word has a long pedigree, running back 
through Fr., Lat., Gr., to the Hebrew eben, a stone. It was applied to a 
kind of dense, hard wood, and afterwards came to denote simply a dark 
color. — Low-brow' 'd ' = beetle-browed, overhanging. 

9. Ragged = rugged, to which it is related. Skeat, in opposition to 
Webster, says there is no reason for connecting it with the A. S. hracod, torn, 
and that its resemblance to the Gr. 'rakos, a shred of cloth, is accidental. 

10. Cimmerian = pertaining to the Cimmerii, a people fabled in ancient 
times to dwell in profound and perpetual darkness. A Cimmerian desert is 
one covered with deep and continual obscurity. 

12. Yclep'd = called ; from A. S. clypian, to call, the p.p. of which is 
geclypod. The prefix y = A. S. ge. — Euphrosyne = Joy, cne of the three 
Graces, her sisters being Aglaia, Beauty, and Thalia, Health. 

14. Venus = the goddess of love and beauty. 

16. Bacchus = the god of wine. 

17. Some sager sing = an allusion, according to some, to Ben Jonson, 
and according to others, to Milton himself. 



NOTES TO MILTON. 499 

18. Frolic = joyous, sportive; from Dutch vro, glad, and suffix lijk = 
Eng. like. "It seems," says Skeat, "to be one of the rather numerous 
words imported from Dutch in the reign of Elizabeth." 

19. Zephyr and Aurora are personifications of the west wind and the 
daxun. 

22. Fresh-blown. Blow, meaning to bloom, is from A. S. blowan, and 
should not be confounded with blow, to puff, which is from A. S. blawan. 

24. Buxom = possessing health and beauty combined with liveliness of 
manner. From A. S. bugan, to bend; the original meaning was pliable, 
obedient. Cf. Ger. biegsam, pliant. — Debonair = courteous ; from Fr. de 
bon air, of good mien. 

25. Nymph = in mythology a goddess of the mountains, forests, mead- 
ows, or waters; otherwise, a lovely maiden. 

26. Jollity = merriment, gayety; from O. Fr. joli, joyful; derived from 
Scandinavian jol, festive. Cf. Eng. Yule. 

27. Quips = playful taunts. It is of Celtic origin. — Cranks = puns or 
twisting of words. From an original root KRANK, to bend, twist. — Wanton 
= playful, sportive. The true sense is unrestrained, uneducated ; from A. S. 
wan, lacking, and p.p. togen, educated, brought up. Webster gives a differ- 
ent etymology. 

28. Becks = significant movements or signs with the head or hands; from 
A. S. beacen, a sign. 

29. Hebe — the goddess of youth, and cupbearer of the gods. 

34. Fantastick = capricious, indulging the vagaries of the imagination. 
From the Gr. phantazein, /taking the place of ph. 

38. Crew = a company of people. It is of Scandinavian origin = old 
Icelandic kru. Webster derives it from Fr. cru, p.p. of croitre, to grow. 
The shade of contempt now adhering to the word did not formerly belong 
to it. 

40. Unreproved = blameless, irreproachable, in which sense it is now 
obsolete. 

44. Dappled= marked with spots of different colors; from I eel. depill, a 
spot. It has no connection with apple, as sometimes suggested. 

48. Eglantine = honeysuckle or woodbine; usually sweet-brier, from 
which, however, Milton here distinguishes it. From Fr. eglantine = Low 
Lat. aculentus, prickly. 

60. Stale = pomp, splendor. 

61. Amber = a yellowish fossil rosin. 

62. Liveries = the uniforms of servants or attendants; from Fr. livrer, 
to deliver, literally meaning a thing delivered, and applied to the clothes 
which a master gives his servant. — Dight= adorned; from A. S. dihtan, to 
set in order, arrange. The full form is dighted, p.p. of dight. 



500 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

66. Sithe is the correct spelling of this word, which comes from the A. S. 
sithe. The c in our present spelling is a blunder. 

67. Tale = reckoning by count, enumeration; from A. S. tal, a number. 
Cf. Ger. Zahl. 

70. Landskip = landscape. The word was borrowed from the Dutch 
painters. Du. landscap. 

71. Fallows = fields that have lain for some time unseeded or unculti- 
vated. From A. S. fealu, yellowish, applied to ploughed land because of its 
yellowish color. 

74. Laboring = in travail with rains and storms. 

75. Pide = spotted; now spelled pied. 

J J. Battlements = notched or indented parapets, originally used only on 
fortifications, but afterwards employed on ecclesiastical and other buildings. 
See Webster. 

78. Bosomed = nestling and partly hidden. 

79. Lies = stays or dwells, as very often in old English. 

80. Cynosure = centre of attraction. From Lat. cynosura, the stars 
composing the constellation of the Lesser Bear, the last of which is the pole- 
star, or centre of attraction to the magnet. From Gr. kuon, dog, and oura, 
tale, meaning literally a dog's tail. 

83. Corydon, Thyrsis, and Thestylis were shepherds, and Phillis, a 
maiden, in Virgil; here used as typical pastoral names. 

85. Messes = dishes of food, without any tinge of contempt. From 0. 
Fr. mes, dish = Low Lat. missum, that which is set or placed. " Not to be 
derived from A. S. myse, a table, nor from Lat. mensa, nor from O. H. Ger. 
maz, meat; all of which have been absurdly suggested." — Skeat. The 
etymologies condemned are found in Webster. 

87. Bower = a chamber, or lady's apartment; from A. S. bur, chamber, 
from buan, to dwell. 

91. Secure = free from care or anxiety; from Lat. se, away, free from, 
and cur a, care. The derivation from sine cur a, though common, seems to 
be a mistake. The prefix se occurs in secede, seduce, etc. 

94. Rebecks — a kind of fiddle, with two, three, or four strings. It 
comes from the Persian rubab, an instrument struck with a bow, through the 
Italian and French. 

96. Chequered = marked with light and shade, like a checker-board. 
From O. Fr. eschec = Persian Shah, a king. Checkmate = shah mat, the 
king is dead. 

98. Holyday = a day of amusement, joy, and gayety. In this sense the 
spelling holiday is preferable. 

99. Livelong = long in passing. 



NOTES TO MILTON. 501 

100. Spicy nut-brown ale = ale seasoned with nutmeg, sugar, toast, and 
roasted apples. Shakespeare refers to it as the " gossips' bowl." 

101. Feat = a striking act of strength, daring, or skill. From Fr. fait, 
p.p. of /aire, to do, from Lat. facer e. 

102. Mab = the queen of the fairies. — Junkets = sweetmeats, dainties. 
The original meaning was cream cheese served up on rushes, whence its name. 
From Ital. giunco, a rush = Lat. juncum. 

103. She and he = two of the party telling their tales over the spicy ale. 

104. Frier's lantern = the ignis fatuus, or will-o'-the-wisp. 

105. Goblin = a mischievous sprite or fairy. From O. Fr. gobelin = Low 
Lat. gobelinus, an extension of cobalus = Gr. kobalos, an impudent rogue, 
sprite. 

no. Lubbar = a heavy, clumsy fellow; now spelled lubber. — Fiend = 
evil spirit; literally, enemy or hater. From A. S. feond, pres. p. of feon, to 
hate. Cf. Ger. Feind, enemy. 

113. Cropful = having a full crop or belly. — Flings = rushes; literally, 
throws himself, the reflexive pronoun being omitted. 

114. Ere the first cock, etc. This was the signal for ghosts and evil 
spirits to vanish. — Matin = morning. In the plural, morning prayers. 
From Fr. matin = Lat. matutinus, from Matuta, the goddess of morning. 

120. Weeds — garments; from A. S. waed, garment. Commonly used 
now only in the phrase " widow's weeds," a widow's mourning dress. 

121. Store = a great number. 

122. Rain influence, upon the contending champions, as in the days of 
astrology the planets were supposed to do upon the lives of men. 

124. Her = the lady of the tournament, by whom the prize was bestowed 
upon the successful knight. — Grace — favor; from Fr. grace = Lat. gratia, 
favor. 

125. Hymen = the god of marriage; represented in the masks of the time 
as dad in yellow silk, and beariig a torch in his hand. 

128. Mask = a dramatic entertainment in which masks were worn. 

128. Antique = ancient In present usage these words are discriminated: 
ancient is opposed to modern; as ancient landmarks, ancient institutions. 
Antique is used to designate what has come down from the ancients, or what 
is made in imitation of them; as, an antique cameo, an antique temple. 
Antic is a doublet of antique. — Pageantry = pompous exhibition or display. 
Pageant originally meant the scaffold or platform on which the miracle plays 
were represented, and afterwards the play itself. From Lat. pagina, scaffold 
or stage. Webster's probable etymology is wrong. 

131. Anon = immediately, at once; from A. S. on an, in one (moment). 
Cf. Eng. at once. 



5 02 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

132. Jonson = Ben Jonson, who was still living when this compliment was 
paid him. — Sock = comedy; literally, the light-heeled shoe or sock worn 
by comic actors, whence a symbol for comedy. Buskin, a high-heeled boot 
or legging worn by tragic actors, has come to stand for tragedy. 

136. Lydian=soit and voluptuous. From Lydia, a country in Asia 
Minor, whose people were notorious for luxurious effeminacy. 

138. Meeting— sympathetic. 

139. Bout = turn, bending; also spelled bought. 

141. Giddy = mirthful; from A. S. giddian, to sing, to be merry. In 
present usage it means unsteady, heedless. 

142. Mazes = intricacies. 

145. Orpheus = a character in Greek mythology, who had power to move 
men and beasts, and even inanimate objects, by the music of his lyre. — ■ 
Heave = raise ; from A. S. hebban, to raise. Cf. Ger. heben, to lift. The 
connection of heaven with heave has not, according to Skeat, been clearly 
made out. 

147. Elysian = pertaining to Elysium, the abode of the blessed in the 
other world. It was represented as a region of perpetual spring, clothed 
with continual verdure, enamelled with flowers, shaded by groves, and re- 
freshed by never-failing fountains. 

149. Pluto = the god of the infernal regions; son of Saturn, and brother 
of Jupiter and Neptune. 

150. Eurydice = the wife of Orpheus. After her death, caused by the 
bite of a serpent, Orpheus descended into Hades, and so moved Pluto by his 
music that the god consented to her restoration to life, but only on the condi- 
tion that the minstrel would not look back until the regions of day were 
reached. Fearing that his wife might not be following, the anxious husband 
cast a glance behind, and thereby lost her forever. 

IL PENSEROSO. 

77 Penseroso — the thoughtful man. 

I. Vain = empty, worthless; from Fr. vain— Lat. vanus, empty. 

3. Bested '= assist. 

4. Fixed = earnest, steady; from O. Fr. fixe = Lat. fixus, p.p. of 
figere, to fix. 

6. Fond = foolish. 

8. Gay motes, because of their lively motion in the sunbeam. 
10. Pensioners = dependants. Through the Fr. from Lat. pensus, p.p. 
of pendere, to weigh out, to pay. Literally, those to whom money is weighed 
out or paid. — Morpheus = the god of dreams. 



NOTES TO MILTON. 503 

14. To hit the sense = to suit or be adapted to the sense. 

18. Jlfemrzon's sister = some beautiful Ethiopian princess. Memnon, 
who was killed by Achilles in the Trojan war, was noted for his beauty. — 
Beseem = suit or become. 

19. Starr' d Ethiop Queen = Cassiope, wife of Cepheus, king of Ethio- 
pia. Having offended the Nereids by her presumption in setting herself 
above them in beauty, Neptune, sympathizing with the anger of the sea- 
maidens, laid waste the realms of Cepheus by an inundation and sea-monster. 
After her death Cassiope was changed into a constellation; whence the 
epithet starred. 

23. Vesta = goddess of the fireside or domestic hearth. — Of yore = 
of old. From A. S. gear a, formerly; originally genitive pla. of gear, 
year. 

24. Solitary Saturn = the father of Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto, who 
were concealed by their mother. He was accustomed to devour his off- 
spring, whence he is called solitary. 

29. Ida = woody mountains near Troy. 

30. No fear of Jove, that is, before he was banished from the throne 
by Jupiter. 

32. Demure = of modest look; from O. Fr. de murs, i.e., de bons 
mtirs, of good manners. 

33. Darkest grain = Tyrian purple. 

35. Stole = a long, loose garment reaching to the feet, the character- 
istic robe of the Roman matron; but here denoting probably a hood ox veil, in 
which sense the word is used by Spenser. — Cyprus lawn. A dark kind of 
lawn was made in Cyprus. From Lat. linum, flax, through the French. 

36. Decent = modest, because covered, From Fr. decent = pres. p. of 
decere, to become, to befit. 

37. Wonted state = usual dignified bearing. 

39. Commercing = communicating. 

40. Rapt = enraptured; from Lat. raptus, p.p. of rapere, to transport. 

41. Passion = devotion; from Fr. passion = Lat. passionem, from pati, 
to suffer. 

42. Forget thyself to marble = become as insensible to surrounding objects 
as a statue. 

43. Leaden = heavy. 

44. Fast = firm, fixed. 
52. Yon — yonder. 

55. Hist along = bring along silently. 

56. 'Less = unless. — Philomel = the nightingale; literally, lover of 
song. 



504 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

59. Cynthia = the moon. A surname of Diana, from Mt. Cynthus, in 
the island of Delos, where she was born. Her chariot, however, was not, 
according to classic mythology, drawn by dragons. Ovid speaks of the 
moon's " snow-white horses." 

60. Accustomed oak == the particular oak in which the nightingale was 
accustomed to sing. 

6 1 . Noise of folly = the sounds of revelry. 

68. Highest noon — highest point of ascension 

73. Flat = a portion of flat, even ground; a variation oiplot. 

74. Curfeu = the ringing of a bell at nightfall as a signal to extinguish 
fires and lights. The custom was introduced into England by William the 
Conqueror. 

78. Removed == remote. — Will fit = will be suitable. 
80. Counterfeit = imitate; from Fr. contre, against, and faire, to make; 
Lat. contra and facer e. 

83. Bellman's drowsy charm = the watchman, who with a bell patrolled 
the streets at night before the establishment of the present police system, and 
called out the hours. Charm = song, incantation; from Fr. charme = Lat. 
car)7ien, song. The bellman frequently made use of rhyme; as, — 

" Mercie secure ye all and keep 
The goblin from ye, while ye sleep, 
Past one o'clock, and almost two, 
My masters all, good-day to you." 

84. Nightly harm — harm at night. 

87. Outwatch the Bear. — The "Bear" refers to the constellation of 
that name, which in England never sets. The poet means that he will 
remain awake all night. 

88. Thrice-great Hermes = a personification of the Egyptian priesthood; 
to him was ascribed the invention of language and writing, geometry, arith- 
metic, astronomy, medicine, music, religion, etc. 

89. Plato = a celebrated Greek philosopher born 429 B.C. To unsphere 
his spirit means to call it back from Elysium. 

95. Consent = harmony, agreement. From Fr. consentir = Lat. con, for 
cum, together, and sentire, to feel. 

98. Sceptred pall = royal robe. Rail = A. S. paell, from Lat. pa/la, a 
mantle. 

99. Oedipus of Thebes, Pelops, and the heroes of the Trojan war, were 
the favorite subjects of Attic tragedy. 

102. Buskin' 'd. — See note on D Allegro, 132. Milton was probably 
thinking of Hamlet, Othello, and King Lear. 



NOTES TO MILTON. 5°5 

104. Musceus = an early Greek bard. 

105. Orpheus. — See note on L' A //egro, 145, 150. 

109. Him = Chaucer. The reference is to the " Squire's Tale," which 
was left unfinished. Cambuscan was a Tartar king, who had two sons, 
Camball and Algarsife, and a daughter Canace. 

116. Great bards beside = probably Tasso, Ariosto, and Spenser, who 
were great favorites with Milton. 

120. Where more is meant, etc. — A reference no doubt to Spenser's 
" Faery Queene," in which the poet had a high moral purpose. 

122. Civil-suited= dressed in the garb of a plain citizen. 

123. Trick? d = tricked out, showily dressed. — Frounced == frizzled and 
curled. 

124. Attic boy = Cephalus, whom she carried off. 

125. Kercheft = having the head covered. A more correct spelling 
would be curchief; from Fr. couvre, cover, and chef, head. Cf. curfeu. 

134. Sylvan = Sylvanus, god of the woods. From Lat. sylva, woods. 

136. Heaved = uplifted. See note on V Allegro, 145. 

140. Profaner = unsympathetic. From Lat. pro, before, and fa nuin, 
temple; hence, outside the temple, not sacred, secular. 

142. Honied thigh. — This is a mistake, for the bee collects the honey in 
its crop. What we see on the " thigh " is pollen. 

145. Consort = harmony of sounds. 

156. Studious cloysters pale = an enclosure or place of retirement de- 
voted to study and religion. He is probably thinking of St. Paul's, where 
he went to school. 

157. High-embowed = with lofty arches. 

158. Antick. — See note on D Allegro, 128. 

159. Bight. — See note on L' Allegro, 62. 
170. Spell = read. 

174. Strain = rank, character; in which sense it is now obsolete. 



SELECTIONS FROM THE FIRST CRITICAL 
PERIOD. 

(1660-1745-) 

I. 

DRYDEN'S SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 1 

I. 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony 

This universal frame 2 began. 
When Nature underneath a heap 

Of jarring atoms 3 lay, 

And could not heave 4 her head, 
The tuneful voice 5 was heard from high : 

Arise, ye more than dead. 
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, 6 
In order to their stations leap, 

And Music's power obey. 
From harmony, from heavenly harmony 

This universal frame began ; 

From harmony to harmony 
Through all the compass of the notes 7 it ran, 
The diapason s closing full in Man. 

II. 

What passion can not Music raise and quell? 
When Jubal 9 struck the corded shell, 10 
His listening brethren stood around, 
And, wondering, on their faces fell 
To worship that celestial sound : 
Less than a god they thought there could not dwell 
Within the hollow of that shell, 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 
506 



SELECTIONS FROM DRY DEN. 507 

III. 

The trumpet's loud clangor 

Excites us to arms 
With shrill notes of anger 

And mortal n alarms. 
The double double double beat 

Of the thundering drum 12 

Cries, hark ! the foes come • 
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat 

IV. 

The soft complaining flute 
In dying notes discovers 13 
The woes of hopeless lovers, 
Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. 

V- 

Sharp violins proclaim 
Their jealous pangs and desperation, 
Fury, frantic indignation, 
Depth of pains and height of passion, 

For the fair, disdainful dame. 

VI. 

But oh ! what art can teach, 
What human voice can reach 
The sacred organ's praise? 

Notes inspiring holy love, 
Notes that wing their heavenly ways 

To mend the choirs above." 

VII. 

Orpheus 15 could lead the savage race, 
And trees uprooted left their place, 

Sequacious 16 of the lyre ; 
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher: 
When to her organ vocal 17 breath was given, 
An angel heard, and straight appeared, 18 

Mistaking earth for heaven. 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

GRAND CHORUS. 

As from the power of sacred lays 

The spheres began to move, 
And sung 19 the great Creator's praise 

To all the blessed above : 
So when the last and dreadful hour 
This crumbling pageant shall devour, 
The trumpet 20 shall be heard on high, 
The dead shall live, the living die, 
And Music shall untune the sky. 



SELECTIONS FROM DRYDEN. 509 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC. 1 

An ode in honor of St. Cecilia's day. 

I. 

Twas zi the royal feast for Persia won 

By Philip's warlike son: 
Aloft in a.vful state 
The godlike hero sate 
On his imperial throne ; 
His valiant peers were placed around; 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles 2 bound ; 

(So should desert in arms be crowned.) 
The lovely Thais, 3 by his side 
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride ; 
In flower of youth and beauty's piide. 
Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

II. 

Timotheus, 4 placed on high 
Amid the tuneful quire, 
With flying fingers touched the lyre : 

The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 5 

Who left his blissful seats above, 
(Such is the power of mighty love.) 
A dragon's fiery form belied 6 th/ 3 god ; 
Sublime on radiant spires 7 he rode 
When he to fair Olympia 8 pressed; 
And while he sought her snowy breast, 

Then round her slender waist he curled, 



5io ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the 

world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, 
A present deity, they shout around ; 
A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound. 

With ravished ears 

The monarch hears, 

Assumes the god, 

Affects to nod, 9 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

III. 

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, 
Of Bacchus 10 ever fair, and ever young. 

The jolly god in triumph comes; 

Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; 

Flushed with a purple grace 

He shows his honest 11 face: 
Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes. 
Bacchus, ever fair and young, 

Drinking joys did first ordain; 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 

Rich the treasure, 

Sweet the pleasure, 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

IV. 

Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; 

Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew 
the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise, 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And while he heaven and earth defied, 
Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 

He chose a mournful Muse, 12 

Soft pity to infuse; 



SELECTIONS FROM DRY DEN. 511 

He chose Darius 13 great and good, 

By too severe a fate, 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 

Fallen from his high estate, 
And weltering in his blood. 
Deserted at his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed, 
On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
Revolving in. his altered soul 

The various turns of chance below; 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole, 14 

And tears began to flow. 



The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree ; 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 
For pity melts the mind to love. 

Softly sweet, in Lydian 15 measures, 

Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble, 
Honor but an empty bubble, 

Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying; 

If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, O think it worth enjoying: 

Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 

Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 

Gazed on the fair 

Who caused his care, 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again ; 
At length, with wine and love at once oppressed, 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 



512 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

VI. 

Now strike the golden lyre again ; 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
Break his bands of sleep asunder, 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head ; 
As awaked from the dead, 
And amazed, he stares around. 
Revenge, revenge ! Timotheus cries ; 
See the Furies 16 arise ; 
See the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair, 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 
Behold a ghastly band, 
Each a torch in his hand! 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
And unburied remain 
Inglorious on the plain ; ir 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 

How they point to the Persian abodes, 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods. 
The princes applaud with a furious joy; 
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 
Thais led the way, 
To light him to his prey, 
And, like another Helen, 18 fired another Troy. 

VII. 

Thus long ago, 
Ere heaving bellows 19 learned to blow, 

While organs yet were mute, 

Timotheus, to his breathing flute 

And sounding lyre, 
• ould swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 

At last divine Cecilia came, 

Inventress of the vocal frame : ** 



SELECTIONS FROM DRY DEN. 513 

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 

Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 

And added length to solemn sounds, 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before, 

Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
Or both divide the crown : 

He raised a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew an angel down. 21 



5 i 4 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO " A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY/' 

i. St. Cecilia, who suffered martyrdom in 230 A. D., is the 
patroness of music. She is regarded as the inventor of the organ, 
to which fact reference is made in the seventh stanza of the ode. 

Dryden wrote the song for the festival of St. Cecelia, Nov. 22, 
1687. It is an admirable poem, surpassed only by " Alexander's 
Feast," which was written on the same theme ten years afterward. 
The order of thought, from the grand opening to the sublime close, 
should be carefully noted by the student. 

It may be remarked that in punctuation and in the arrangement 
of the lines this poem has rarely been printed correctly. 

2. Universal frame = system of the universe. "Frame," as here 
used, was a common word among the poets of the period. In 
Pope's well-known hymn, for example, we read, — 

" The spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky, 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim." 

3. Heap of jarring atoms = Chaos. 

4. Heave = raise. From A. S. hebben, to lift; Ger. heben. 

5. The tuneful voice = the musical utterance of God, at whose 
behest the universe came into being. 

6. This line embodies the ancient belief that the universe is made 
up of the four elements, earth, air, fire, and water. 

7. The notes =z the first seven notes of the octave. 

8. Diapason = the full or comprehensive harmony of the octave. 

9. Jubal was " the father of all such as handle the harp and 
organ." Gen. 4 :2i. 

10. In its original form the lyre consisted of a stringed tortoise- 
shell. 

11. Mortal = associated with death. 



NOTES TO DRYDEN. 515 

12. In Dryden's " Songs of King Arthur " we find a similar 
passage : — 

"Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound; 
Come, if you dare, the foes rebound : 
We come, we come, we come, we come, 
Says the double, double, double beat of the thundering drum." 

In this stanza, and in the following stanzas, note the harmony 
of sound and sense. 

13. Discovers = uncovers or discloses — an archaic use of the 
word. Similarly, in the " Merchant of Venice," we find, — 

" Go draw the curtain, and discover 
The several caskets to this noble prince." 

14. This line savors of audacity, if not of irreverence. In either 
case it was in keeping with the spirit of the Restoration period. 

15. Orpheus was a Greek demigod, the son of Apollo. By the 
aid of a lyre invented by Hermes, he moved not only men and 
beasts, but also trees and rocks. 

16. Sequacious = disposed or ready to follow. From Lat. sequor, 
follow. 

17. Vocal = producing sound. 

18. According to legend Cecilia drew an angel down from 
heaven by the charm of her music. See the last line of " Alex- 
ander's Feast." 

19. " The morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God 
shouted for joy." Job 38:7. 

20. " The trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised in- 
corruptible, and we shall be changed." 1 Cor. 15 152. 



516 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 

1. For a general introduction, consult the sketch of Dryden and 
the first note to the preceding ode. The banquet here celebrated 
was held in Persepolis, the capital of Persia, not long after the 
battle of Arbela, 331 B. C. 

2. At Greek banquets it was customary for the guests to wear 
garlands of rose and myrtle. 

3. Thais was an Athenian beauty, famous for her wit. She 
accompanied Alexander on his expedition to Asia, and it is said 
that on the occasion here described she induced " Philip's warlike 
son " to set fire to the palace of the Persian kings. This fact is 
referred to in the sixth stanza of the ode. 

4. Timotheus was a celebrated musician of Thebes. He excelled 
particularly in playing the flute ; and it is related that his music 
once so animated Alexander at a banquet that the monarch started 
up and seized his arms. Hence the incident here portrayed is 
not entirely without foundation. 

5. Jove, or Jupiter, was the supreme deity of the Romans, iden- 
tical with the Grecian Zeus. He is represented as " the father of 
gods and men." The legend embodied in this stanza is based on 
Plutarch's " Alexander," which see. 

6. Belied = misrepresented. 

7. Spires = spirals. 

8. Olympia, usually Olympias, was the wife of Philip of Mace- 
don. She did not hesitate at a later day, "in the intoxication of 
female vanity, to sanction the story." 

9. A reference to a famous passage in the Iliad, Bk. I., 682-86: 

" The son of Saturn spoke and gave the nod. 
Above his azure brows, the ambrosial locks 
Of heaven's great king, on his immortal head, 
Were shaken, and the vast expanse of heaven, 
With huge Olympus, shook." 

Munford's Translation, 



NOTES TO DRYDEN. 517 

10. Bacchus = the god of wine. 

11. Honest = beautiful. From Lat. honestus, beautiful. 

12. Muse = poetic theme. 

13. This was Darius III., the last King of Persia. Defeated at 
Arbela, he fled to Bactria, where he was betrayed by the satrap 
Bessus. A reference to this treachery is found in subsequent lines 
of this stanza. 

14. A sigh he stole = he sighed secretly or inaudibly. 

15. Lydim = soft and voluptuous, such as characterized the 
wealthy and luxurious city of Lydia in Asia Minor. 

16- The Furies were three in number, named Alecto, Megaera, and 
Tisiphone. They are commonly represented as brandishing a torch 
in one hand, and a scourge of snakes in the other. Their office was 
vengeance. 

17. It was believed among the ancient Greeks that* the spirits 
of the dead had no rest until their funeral rites were performed 
and their bodies duly buried. Hence in the Iliad, Bk. XXIII, 100- 
108, Patroclus thus addresses Achilles : 

" My funeral rites 
Perform, that specially I may the gates 
Of Hades enter. . . . Vainly now, 
Round the wide-portalled court of Pluto's hall, 
I restless wander." 

18. Helen, the wife of Menelaus, was the most beautiful of 
Grecian women. She eloped with Paris, the prince of Troy. This 
brought on the famous Trojan war, which ended after ten years 
with the sacking and burning of Troy. 

19. Bellozvs, that is, of the organ. 

20. Vocal frame = organ. See note 1 of preceding ode. 

21. See note 18 of preceding ode. 



II. 

ADDISON'S SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 

I. SIR ROGER'S COUNTRY RESIDENCE. 

Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger 
de Coverley to pass away a month with him in the country, I last 
week accompanied him thither, and am settled with him for some 
time at his country-house, where I intend to form several of my en- 
suing speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well acquainted with my 
humor, 1 lets me rise and go to bed when I please, dine at his own 
table or in my chamber as I think fit, sit still and say nothing without 
bidding me be merry. When the gentlemen of the county come to 
see him, he only shows me at a distance. As I have been walking 
in his fields, I have observed them stealing a sight of me over an 
hedge, 2 and have heard the knight desiring them not to let me see 
them, for that I hated to be stared at. 

I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it consists 
of sober and staid persons : for as the knight 3 is the best master in 
the world, he seldom changes his servants ; and as he is beloved by 
all about him, his servants never care for leaving him : by this means 
his domestics are all in years, and grown old with their master. You 
would take his valet-de-chcunbre 4 for his brother, his butler is gray- 
headed, his groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen, 
and his coachman has the looks of a privy-councillor. 5 You see the 
goodness of the master even in the old house-dog, and in a gray 
pad 6 that is kept in the stable with great care and tenderness out 
of regard to his past services, though he has been useless for several 
years. 

I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure the joy that 
appeared in the countenances of these ancient domestics, upon my 
friend's arrival at his county-seat. Some of them could not refrain 
from tears at the sight of their old master; every one of them 
pressed forward to do something for him, and seemed discouraged if 
5i8 



SIR ROGER BE COVER LEY. 



519 



they were not employed. At the same time, the good old knight, 
with a mixture of the father and master of the family, tempered 7 the 
inquiries after his own affairs with several kind questions relating to 
themselves. This humanity s and good nature engages everybody to 
him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his family are 
in good humor, and none so much as the person whom he diverts 
himself with ; on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity 
of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to observe a secret concern in 
the looks of all his servants. 

My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of his 
butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest of 
his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, because 
they have often heard their master talk of me as of his particular 
friend. 

My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the 
woods or the fields, is a very venerable man, who is ever with Sir 
Roger, and has lived at his house in the nature 9 of a chaplain above 
thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense and some 
learning, of a very regular life and obliging conversation. He heart- 
ily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in the old 
knight's esteem, so that he lives in the family rather as a relation 
than a dependant. 

I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend Sir 
Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of an humorist ; 
and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are, as it were, tinged IO 
by a certain extravagance, which makes them particularly his, and 
distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind, as 
it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders his conversation 
highly agreeable and more delightful than the same degree of sense 
and virtue would appear in their common and ordinary colors. As I 
was walking with him last night, he asked me how I liked the good 
man whom I have just now mentioned ; and without staying for my- 
answer, told me that he was afraid of being insulted II with Latin and 
Greek at his own table ; for which reason he desired a particular 
friend of his at the university to find him out a clergyman rather of 
plain sense than much learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a 
sociable temper, and, if possible, a man that understood a little of 
backgammon. 12 "My friend," says Sir Roger, "found me out this 



520 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

gentleman, who, besides the endowments required of him, is, they 
tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it. I have given 
him the parsonage I3 of the parish ; and because I know his value, 
have settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me 
he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks 
he is. He has now been with me thirty years; and though he does 
not know I have taken notice of it, has never in all that time asked 
anything of me for himself, though he is every day soliciting me for 
something in behalf of one or other of my tenants his parishioners. 
There has not been a lawsuit in the parish since he has lived among 
them ; if any dispute arises, they apply themselves to him for the 
decision ; if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think 
never happened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At 
his first settling with me, I made him a present of all the good ser- 
mons which have been printed in English, and only begged of him 
that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the pulpit. 
Accordingly, he has digested I4 them into such a series that they fol- 
low one another naturally, and make a continued system of practical 
divinity." I5 

As Sir Roger was going on with his story, the gentleman we were 
talking of came up to us ; and upon the knight's asking him who 
preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday night), told us, the Bishop 
of St. Asaph in the morning, and Dr. South in the afternoon. He 
then showed us his list of preachers for the whole year, where I saw 
with a great deal of pleasure Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunder- 
son, Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, 16 with several living authors, who have 
published discourses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw this ven- 
erable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved of my friend's 
insisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect and a clear voice ; 
for I was so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure and deliv- 
ery, as well as with the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never 
passed any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated after 
this manner is like the composition of a poet in the mouth of a 
graceful actor. 

I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy would fol- 
low this example, and instead of wasting their spirits in laborious 
compositions of their own, would endeavor after a handsome elocu- 
tion, and all those other talents that are proper to enforce what has 



SIR ROGER BE COVERLEY. 521 

been penned by greater masters. This would not only be more easy 
to themselves, but more edifying to the people. 



II. A SUNDAY AT SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY'S. 

I am always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and think, 
if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institution, it 
would be the best method that could have been thought of for the 
polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people 
would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were 
there not such frequent returns at a stated time, in which the whole 
village meet together with their best faces, and in their cleanliest 
habits, 1 to converse with one another upon different subjects, hear 
their duties explained to them, and join together in adoration of the 
Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, 
not only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as 
it puts both the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, 
and exerting all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the 
eye of the village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much 
in the churchyard as a citizen does upon the 'Change, 2 the whole 
parish politics being generally discussed in that place either after 
sermon or before the bell rings. 

My friend Sir Roger being a good churchman, 3 has beautified 
the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing. He 
has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the com- 
munion table at his own expense. He has often told me, that at his 
coming to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular ; and 
that in order to make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave 
every one of them a hassock 4 and a Common Prayer-Book, and at 
the same time employed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about 
the country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of 
the psalms ; upon which they now very much value themselves, and, 
indeed, outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard. 

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps 
them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it be- 
sides himself ; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short 
nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks 
about him, and if he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them 



522 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

himself, or sends his servant to them. Several other of the old 
knight's particularities 5 break out upon these occasions. Some- 
times he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing psalms, half a 
minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it; some- 
times, when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pro- 
nounces Amen three or four times to the same prayer, and sometimes 
stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to count the con- 
gregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing. 

I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in 
the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind 
what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John 
Matthews, it seems, is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at 
that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. The authority of 
the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies 
him in all circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the 
parish, who are not polite 6 enough to see anything ridiculous in his 
behavior; besides that the general good sense and worthiness of his 
character make his friends observe these little singularities as foils, 7 
that rather set off than blemish his good qualities. 

As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till 
Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from 
his seat in the chancel 8 between a double row of his tenants, that 
stand bowing to him on each side : and every now and then inquires 
how such an one's wife, or mother, or son, or father, does, whom he 
does not see at church ; which is understood as a secret reprimand 
to the person that is absent. 

The chaplain has often told me that upon a catechizing day, when 
Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has 
ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encouragement; 
and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch 9 of bacon to his mother. 
Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk's IO 
place ; and that he may encourage the young fellows to make them- 
selves perfect in the church-service, has promised, upon the death of 
the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it according to 
merit. 

The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his chaplain, and 
their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the more remarkable, 
because the very next village is famous for the differences and con- 



SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 5^3 

tentions that rise between the parson IX and the squire, who live in a 
perpetual state of war. The parson is always preaching at the 
squire ; and the squire, to be revenged on the parson, never comes 
to church. The squire has made all his tenants atheists and tithe- 
stealers ; I2 while the parson instructs them every Sunday in the dig- 
nity of his order, and insinuates to them in almost every sermon that 
he is a better man than his patron. In short, matters are come to 
such an extremity, that the squire has not said his prayers either in 
public or private this half-year ; and that the parson threatens him, 
if he does not mend his manners, to pray for him in the face of the 
whole congregation. 

Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the country, are very 
fatal to the ordinary people, who are so used to be dazzled with 
riches that they pay as much deference to the understanding of a 
man of an estate as of a man of learning ; and are very hardly I3 
brought to regard any truth, how important soever it may be, that 
is preached to them, when they know there are several men of five 
hundred a year who do not believe it. 

III. SIR ROGER'S VISIT TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

My friend Sir Roger de Coverley told me the other night that 
he had been reading my paper upon Westminster * Abbey, " in 
which," says he, "there are a great many ingenious fancies." He 
told me, at the same time, that he observed I had promised another 
paper upon, the tombs, and that he should be glad to go and see 
them with me, not having visited them since he had read history. 
I could not at first imagine how this came into the knight's head, till 
I recollected that he had been very busy all last summer upon 
Baker's Chronicle? which he has quoted several times in his dis- 
putes with Sir Andrew Freeport 3 since his last coming to town. 
Accordingly, I promised to call upon him the next morning, that we 
might go together to the Abbey. 

I found the knight under the butler's hands, who always shaves 
him. He was no sooner dressed, than he called for a glass of the 
Widow Trueby's water, 4 which he told me he always drank before he 
went abroad. He recommended to me a dram of it at the same 
time, with so much heartiness that I could not forbear drinking it. 



524 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

As soon as I had got it down, I found it very unpalatable ; upon 
which the knight, observing that I had made several wry faces, told 
me that he knew I should not like it at first, but that it was the best 
thing in the world against the stone or gravel. 

I could have wished, indeed, that he had acquainted me with the 
virtues of it sooner ; but it was too late to complain, and I knew 
what he had done was out of good-will. Sir Roger told me further, 
that he looked upon it to be very good for a man while he staid in 
town, to keep off infection, and that he got together a quantity of it 
upon the first news of the sickness 5 being at Dantzic : when of a 
sudden, turning short to one of his servants, who stood behind him, 
he bid him call a hackney-coach, 6 and take care it was an elderly 
man that drove it. 

He then resumed his discourse upon Mrs. Trueby's water, telling 
me that the Widow Trueby was one who did more good than all the 
doctors and apothecaries in the country : that she distilled every 
poppy that grew within five miles of her ; that she distributed her 
medicine gratis among all sorts of people ; to which the knight 
added, that she had a very good jointure, 7 and that the whole coun- 
try would fain have it a match between him and her; "and truly," 
says Sir Roger, " if I had not been engaged, perhaps I could not 
have done better." 

His discourse was broken off by his man's telling him he had 
called a coach. Upon our going to it, after having cast his eye upon 
the wheels, he asked the coachman if his axle-tree was good. Upon 
the fellow's telling him he would warrant it, the knight turned to me, 
told me he looked like an honest man, and went in without further 
ceremony. 

We had not gone far, when Sir Roger, popping out his head, 
called the coachman down from his box, and upon presenting himself 
at the window, asked him if he smoked. As I was considering what 
this would end in, he bid him stop by the way at any good tobacco- 
nist's, and take in a roll of their best Virginia. s Nothing material 
happened in the remaining part of our journey, till we were set down 
at the west end of the Abbey. 

As we went up the body of the church, the knight pointed at 
the trophies 9 upon one of the new monuments, and cried out: "A 
brave man, I warrant him ! " Passing afterward by Sir Cloudesley 



SIR ROGER DE COVERIEY. 525 

Shovel, 10 he flung his hand that way, and cried : " Sir Cloudesley 
Shovel ! a very gallant man ! " As we stood before Busby's IJ tomb, 
the knight uttered himself again after the same manner : " Dr Busby ! 
a great man ! he whipped my grandfather ; a very great man ! I 
should have gone to him myself, if I had not been a blockhead ; a 
very great man ! " 

We were immediately conducted into the little chapel I2 on the 
right hand. Sir Roger, planting himself at our historian's I3 elbow, 
was very attentive to everything he said, particularly to the account 
he gave us of the lord who had cut off the king of Morocco's head. 
Among several other figures, he was very well pleased to see the 
statesman Cecil I4 upon his knees ; and concluding them all to be 
great men, was conducted to the figure which represents that martyr IS 
to good housewifery, who died by the prick of a needle. Upon our 
interpreter's telling us that she was a maid of honor to Queen Eliza- 
beth, the knight was very inquisitive into her name and family ; and 
after having regarded her finger for some time, " I wonder," says he, 
"that Sir Richard Baker has said nothing of her in his Chronicle.'" 

We were then conveyed to the two coronation chairs, 16 where 
my old friend, after having heard that the stone underneath the most 
ancient of them, which was brought from Scotland, was called 
Jacob's pillar, sat himself down in the chair; and looking like the 
figure of an old Gothic king, asked our interpreter : " What authority 
they had to say that Jacob had ever been in Scotland ? " The fellow, 
instead of returning him an answer, told him " that he hoped his 
honor would pay his forfeit." I? I could observe Sir Roger a little 
ruffled upon being thus trepanned ; l8 but our guide not insisting upon 
his demand, the knight soon recovered his good humor, and whis- 
pered in my ear, that if Will Wimble I9 were with us, and saw those 
two chairs, it would go hard but he would get a tobacco-stopper out 
of one or t'other of them. 

Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon Edward III.'s 20 
sword, and leaning upon the pommel of it, gave us the whole history 
of the Black Prince ; concluding, that in Sir Richard Baker's opin- 
ion, Edward III. was one of the greatest princes that ever sat upon 
the English throne. 

We were then shown Edward the Confessor's 2I tomb ; upon 
which Sir Roger acquainted us, that he was the first that touched 



526 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

for the evil : 22 and afterward Henry IV.'s, 23 upon which he shook 
his head, and told us there was fine reading of the casualties of that 
reign. 

Our conductor then pointed to that monument where there is the 
figure of one of our English kings without an head ; 24 and upon giv- 
ing us to know that the head, which was of beaten silver, had been 
stole away several years since : " Some Whig, I'll warrant you," says 
Sir Roger ; " you ought to lock up your kings better; they will carry 
off the body too, if you do not take care." 

The glorious names of Henry V. and Queen Elizabeth gave the 
knight great opportunities of shining, and of doing justice to Sir 
Richard Baker, " who," as our knight observed with some surprise, 
"had a great many kings in him, whose monuments he had not seen 
in the Abbey." 

For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see the knight 
show such an honest passion for the glory of his country, and such 
a respectful gratitude to the memory of its princes. 

I must not omit that the benevolence of my good old friend, 
which flows out toward every one he converses with, made him very 
kind to our interpreter, whom he looked upon as an extraordinary 
man, for which reason he shook him by the hand at parting, telling 
him that he should be very glad to see him at his lodgings in Nor- 
folk Buildings, and talk over these matters with him more at leisure. 



IV. DEATH OF SIR ROGER. 

We last night received a piece of ill news at our club, which 
very sensibly afflicted every one of us. I question not but my readers 
themselves will be troubled at the hearing of it. To keep them no 
longer in suspense, Sir Roger de Coverley is dead. He departed 
this life at his house in the country, after a few weeks' sickness. Sir 
Andrew Freeport has a letter from one of his correspondents in those 
parts, that informs him the old man caught a cold at the county- 
sessions, as he was very warmly promoting an address of his own 
penning, in which he succeeded according to his wishes. But this 
particular comes from a Whig justice of peace, who was always Sir 
Roger's enemy and antagonist. I have letters both from the chap-, 
lain and Captain Sentry, 1 which mention nothing of it, but are filled 



SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 527 

with many particulars to the honor of the good old man. I have 
likewise a letter from the butler, who took so much care of me last 
summer when I was at the knight's house. As my friend, the butler, 
mentions, in the simplicity of his heart, several circumstances the 
others have passed over in silence, I shall give my reader a copy of 
his letter, without any alteration or diminution. 

" Honored Sir — Knowing that you was my old master's good friend, I 
could not forbear sending you the melancholy news of his death, which has 
afflicted the whole country as well as his poor servants, who loved him, I 
may say, better_than we did our lives. I am afraid he caught his death at 
the last county-sessions, where he would go to see justice done to a poor 
widow woman and her fatherless children, that had been wronged by a neigh- 
boring gentleman; for you know, my good master was always the poor man's 
friend. Upon his coming home, the first complaint he made was, that he 
had lost his roast-beef stomach, not being able to touch a sirloin which was 
served up according to custom; and you know he used to take great delight 
in it. From that time forward he grew worse and worse, but still kept a 
good heart to the last. Indeed, we were once in great hope of his recovery, 
upon a kind message that was sent him from the widow lady 2 whom he had 
made love to the forty last years of his life; but this only proved a lightning 
before his death. He has bequeathed to this lady, as a token of his love, a 
great pearl necklace, and a couple of silver bracelets set with jewels, which 
belonged to my good lady his mother. He has bequeathed the fine white 
gelding that he used to ride a-hunting upon to his chaplain, because he 
thought he would be kind to him; and has left you all his books. He has 
moreover bequeathed to the chaplain a very pretty tenement, with good lands 
about it. It being a very cold day when he made his will, he left for mourn- 
ing, to every man in the parish, a great frieze 3 coat, and to every woman a 
black riding-hood. It was a moving sight to see him take leave of his poor 
servants, commending us all for our fidelity, while we were not able to speak 
a word for weeping. As we most of us are grown gray-headed in our dear 
master's service, he has left us pensions and legacies, which we may live very 
comfortably upon the remaining part of our days. He has bequeathed a 
great deal more in charity, which is not yet come to my knowledge ; and it is 
peremptorily said in the parish that he has left money to build a steeple to 
the church; for he was heard to say some time ago, that if he lived two 
years longer, Coverley church should have a steeple to it. The chaplain tells 
everybody he made a very good end, and never speaks of him without tears. 
He was buried, according to his own directions, among the family of the 
Qoverleys, on the left hand of his father Sir Arthur. The coffin was carried 



528 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

by six of his tenants, and the pall held up by six of the quorum. 4 The whole 
parish followed the corpse with heavy hearts, and in their mourning suits; the 
men in frieze, and the women in riding-hoods. Captain Sentry, my master's 
nephew, has taken possession of the Hall-house and the whole estate. When 
my old master saw him a little before his death, he shook him by the hand, 
and wished him joy of the estate which was falling to him, desiring him only 
to make a good use of it, and to pay the several legacies and the gifts of 
charity, which he told him he had left as quit-rents 5 upon the estate. The 
captain truly seems a courteous man, though he says but little. He makes 
much of those whom my master loved, and shows great kindness to the old 
house-dog that you know my poor master was so fond of. It would have 
gone to your heart to have heard the moans the dumb creature made on the 
day of my master's death. He has never joyed himself since; no more has 
any of us. It was the melancholiest day for the poor people that ever hap- 
pened in Worcestershire. This is all from, honored sir, your most sorrowful 
servant, 

Edward Biscuit. 

P. S. — My master desired, some weeks before he died, that a book, 
which comes up to you by the carrier, should be given to Sir Andrew Free- 
port in his name." 

This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler's manner of writing 
it, gave us such an idea of our good old friend, that upon the read- 
ing of it there was not a dry eye in the club. Sir Andrew opening 
the book, found it to be a collection of acts of parliament. There 
was in particular the Act of Uniformity, with some passages in it 
marked by Sir Roger's own hand. Sir Andrew found that they 
related to two or three points which he had disputed with Sir Rogei 
the last time he appeared at the club. Sir Andrew, who would have 
been merry at such an incident on another occasion, at the sight of 
the old man's writing burst into tears, and put the book in his pocket. 
Captain Sentry informs me that the knight has left rings and mourn- 
ing for every one in the club. 



NOTES TO SIR ROGER DE COVER LEY. 5^9 



NOTES TO SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 

The Sir Rogc de Coverley papers are taken from the Spectator, and well 
exhibit the elegant style and delicate humor of Addison. 



I. 

1. Humor = disposition. Fr. humeur= Lat. humor em, from humere, 
to be moist. Cf. humid. 

2. An hedge. — Addison frequently uses an before a sounded h. 

3. Knight '= Sir Roger. A. S. cniht, a boy, servant. Cf. Ger. Knecht. 

4. Valet-de-chambre = a body servant or personal attendant. Pro- 
nounced vdl-d de shdm-br. 

5. Privy-councillor ■== a member of the privy council ; one of the distin- 
guished persons selected by a sovereign to advise in the administration of the 
government. Equivalent to our cabinet officer. 

6. Pad = an easy-paced horse, 

7. Tempered^ softened. 

8. Humanity = kindness, Denevolence. 

9. Nature = character. 

10. Tinged = slightly colored. Lat. linger e, to dye. 

1 1 . Insulted, etc. — Sir Roger, in common with the country gentlemen of 
the time, made but little pretension to learning. 

12. Backgammon. — The common etymology derives it from the Welsh 
bach, little, and cammon, a battle. But this Skeat pronounces "a worthless 
guess." 

13. Parsonage = the benefice or church living of the parish; not the 
house used as a residence by pastors. 

14. Digested '= distributed or arranged methodically. 

15. Divinity = theology, or the science which treats of God, his laws, 
and moral government. 

16. These were distinguished divines, three of whom, Tillotson, South, 
and Barrow, still deserve to be studied. 



530 ENGLISH LITERATURE* 

II. 

1. Habits = attire, dress. 

2. ''Change = Exchange; that is, the place where the merchants, bro- 
kers, and bankers of a city meet at certain hours to transact business. 

3. Churchman= an Episcopalian as distinguished from a Presbyterian 
or Congregationalist. 

4. Hassock = a thick mat for kneeling in church. 

5. Particularities = peculiarities, individual characteristics. 

6. Polite = polished, refined. 

7. Foils == anything that serves to set off another thing to advantage 
See Webster. 

8. Chancel = the part of a church between the communion table and the 
railing that encloses it. O. F. chancel, an enclosure, from Lat. cancellus, a 
grating. 

9. Flitch = the side of a hog salted and cured. 

10. Clerk = a parish officer, being a layman who leads in reading the 
responses of the Episcopal Church service. 

11. Parson — a clergyman. Parson and person are the same word, from 
Lat. persona. Blackstone says: " & parson, persona ecclesice, is one that hath 
full possession of all the rights of a parochial church. He is called parson, 
persona, because by his person the church, which is an invisible body, is 
represented." — "This reason may well be doubted," says Skeat, "but 
without affecting the etymology." 

12. Tithe-stealers. — A tithe is the tenth part of the increase arising from 
the profits of land and stock, allotted to the clergy for their support. 

13. Very hardly = with great difficulty. 



III. 

In a previous number of the Spectator Addison tells us of Sir Roger's 
visit to London. 

1. Westminster Abbey = a famous cathedral in London, in which the 
British sovereigns are crowned, and in which many of them are buried. 
Addison made it the subject of the twenty-sixth paper in the Spectator. 

2. Baker's Chronicle. — Sir Richard Baker was born in 1568; and his 
book, the full title of which is " Chronicle of the Kings of England," was 
popular in the last century. 

3. Sir Andrew Freepoi't was a member of the imaginary club, to which 
the Spectator and Sir Roger belonged. 

4. Widozu Trtieby's water — a strong drink said to have been much 
used by the ladies as an exhilarant. From what we know of Addison's 
bibulous habits, we may conclude that his dislike is only assumed for effect. 



NOTES TO SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 531 

5. Sickness = the plague, which prevailed at Dantzic in 1709. 

6. Hackney-coach = a coach kept for hire. 

7. Jointure == an estate settled on a wife, and which she is to enjoy 
after her husband's decease. 

8. Virginia = a common name for tobacco in Addison's time. 

9. Trophies = representations in marble of a pile of arms taken from 
a vanquished enemy. 

10. Sir Cloudesley Shovel. — The visitors passed by his monument. A 
distinguished British admiral, commander-in-chief of the British fleets. Re- 
turning to England in 1707, his ship struck on the rocks near Scilly and sank 
with all on board. The body of Sir Cloudesley Shovel was found next day, 
and buried in Westminster Abbey. 

11. Richard Busby was for fifty-five years, from 1640 to 1695, headmaster 
of Westminster School. It has been said that he " bred up the greatest 
number of learned scholars that ever adorned any age or nation." He was 
equally noted for his learning, assiduity, and application of the birch. 

12. Little chapel, etc. = the chapel of St. Edmund. In cathedrals, 
chapels are usually annexed in the recesses on the sides of the aisles. 

13. Historian = the guide who shows visitors through the Abbey. 

14. Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, was born in 1550 and died in 1612. 
In 1608 he was made Lord High Treasurer. A man of immense energy and 
far-reaching sagacity — the best minister of his time, but cold, selfish, and 
unscrupulous. 

15. Martyr, etc. — This is described as "an elaborate statue of Eliza- 
beth Russell of the Bedford family — foolishly shown for many years as the 
lady who died by the prick of a needle." Goldsmith characterizes the story 
as one of a hundred lies that the guide tells without blushing. 

16. Coronation chairs = two chairs in the Chapel of Edward the 
Confessor used at the coronation of the sovereigns of Great Britain. The 
more ancient of the two contains the famous "Stone of Scone," on which 
the kings of Scotland were crowned. The stone was brought to England by 
Edward I. in 1304. The other coronation chair was placed in the Abbey in 
the reign of William and Mary. 

17. Forfeit, that is, for sitting in the chair. 

18. Trepanned = ensnared, caught. Another form of the verb is 
trapan. From Fr. trappe, a trap. 

19. Will Wimble is described in one of the Coverley papers as 
"younger brother to a baronet. . . . He is now between forty and fifty, but 
being bred to no business, and born to no estate, he generally lives with his 
elder brother as superintendent of his game. He hunts a pack of dogs 
better than any man in the country, and is very famous for finding out a 
hare," etc. He was a neighbor and friend of Sir Roger. 



532 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

20. Edward III. was bdrn in 13 1 2 and died in 1376. He gained 
many victories, including that of Crecy. During his reign many salutary 
laws were enacted, and art and literature nourished. The Black Prince was 
his son. 

21. Edward the Confessor, king of the Anglo-Saxons, was born in 
7004 and died in 1066, the year of the Conquest. 

22. The evil '.== a scrofulous disease known as "king's evil." It was 
formerly believed that the touch of a king would cure it. 

23. Henry IV. was born in 1366 and died in 1413, after a troubled 
reign of fourteen years. 

24. The monument in question was that of Henry V., the hero of 
Agincourt. He was born in 1388 and died in 1422. The head of the effigy, 
vhich was of silver, was stolen at the time of the Protestant Reformation. 



IV. 

1. Captain Sentry was Sir Roger's nephew and heir. 

2. The widow lady captivated Sir Roger in his early manhood. A 
full account of the circumstances will be found in the Spectator No. 1 13. 
Elsewhere Sir Roger says: "When I reflect upon this woman, I do not 
know whether in the main I am the worse for having loved her; whenever 
she is recalled to my imagination, my youth returns, and I feel a forgotten 
warmth in my veins. This affliction in my life has streaked all my conduct 
with a softness, of which I should otherwise have been incapable." 

3. Frieze = a coarse woollen cloth with a nap on one side. 

4. Quorum = justice-court. 

5. Quit-rent = a rent reserved in grants of land, by the payment of 
which the tenant is quieted or quit from all other service. 



III. 

POPE'S ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 

PART I. 

'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill 
Appear in writing or in judging ill ; 
But, of the two, less dangerous is the offence 
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. 
Some few in that, but numbers err in this ; 
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss ; 
A fool might once himself alone expose, 
Now one in verse makes many more in prose. 

'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none 
Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 
In poets as true genius is but rare, 
True taste as seldom is the critic's share ; 
Both must alike from Heaven derive their light, 
These born to judge, as well as those to write. 
Let such teach others who themselves excel, 
And censure freely, who have written well. 
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, 
But are not critics to their judgment, too ? 

Yet, if we look more closely, we shall find 
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind : 
Nature affords at least a glimmering light. 
The lines, though touched but faintly, are drawn right ; 
But, as the slighest sketch, if justly traced, 
Is, by ill-coloring, but the more disgraced, 
So, by false learning, is good sense defaced : 
Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, 
And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools. 
In search of wit these lose their common sense, 
And then turn critics in their own defence : 
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write, 
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite. 
All fools have still an itching to deride, 
And fain would be upon the laughing side. 

533 r 



534 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

If Maevius scribble in Apollo's spite, 

There are, who judge still worse than he can write. 

Some have at first for wits, then poets, passed, 
Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at last. 
Some neither can for wits nor critics pass, 
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass. 
Those half-learned witlings, numerous in our isle, 
As half-formed insects on the banks of Nile ; 
Unfinished things, one knows not what to call, 
Their generation's so equivocal : 
To tell them would a hundred tongues require, 
Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire. 

But you, who seek to give and merit fame, 
And justly bear a critic's noble name, 
Be sure yourself and your own reach to know, 
How far your genius, taste, and learning, go ; 
Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, 
And mark that point where sense and dulness meet. 

Nature to all things fixed the limits fit, 
And wisely curbed proud man's pretending wit. 
As on the land while here the ocean gains, 
In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains ; 
Thus in the soul while memory prevails, 
The solid power of understanding fails. 
Where beams of warm imagination play, 
The memory's soft figures melt away. 
One science only will one genius fit ; 
So vast is art, so narrow human wit : 
Not only bounded to peculiar arts, 
But oft in those confined to single parts. 
Like kings, we lose the conquests gained before, 
By vain ambition still to make them more : 
Each might his several province well command, 
Would all but stoop to what they understand. 

First follow nature, and your judgment frame 
By her just standard, which is still the same : 
Unerring nature, still divinely bright, 
One clear, unchanged, and universal light, 



AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 535 

Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, 

At once the source, and end, and test of art. 

Art from that fund each just supply provides ; 

Works without show, and without pomp presides : 

In some fair body thus the informing soul 

With spirits feeds, with vigor fills the whole, 

Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains ; 

Itself unseen, but in the effects remains. 

Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, 80 

Want as much more, to turn it to its use ; 

For wit and judgment often are at strife, 

Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. 

'Tis more to guide, than spur the muse's steed ; 

Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed ; 

The winged courser, like a generous horse, 

Shows most true metal when you check his course. 

Those rules, of old discovered, not devised, 
Are nature still, but nature methodized ; 

Nature, like liberty, is but restrained 90 

By the same laws which first herself ordained. 

Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites, 
When to repress, and when indulge our flights. 
High on Parnassus' top her sons she showed, 
And pointed out those arduous paths they trod ; 
Held from afar, aloft, the immortal prize, 
And urged the rest by equal steps to rise. 
Just precepts thus from great examples given, 
She drew from them what they derived from Heaven. 
The generous critic fanned the poet's fire, 100 

And taught the world with reason to admire. 
Then criticism the muse's handmaid proved, 
To dress her charms, and make her more beloved : 
But following wits from that intention strayed, 
Who could not win the mistress, wooed the maid ; 
Against the poets their own arms they turned, 
Sure to hate most the men from whom they learned. 
So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art 
By doctors' bills, to play the doctor's part, 



536 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, no 

Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools. 

Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey, 

Nor time nor moths e'er spoil so much as they. 

Some dryly plain, without invention's aid, 

Write dull receipts how poems may be made. 

These leave the sense, their learning to display, 

And those explain the meaning quite away. 

You, then, whose judgment the right course would steer, 
Know well each ancient's proper character ; 

His fable, subject, scope in every page ; 120 

Religion, country, genius of his age : 
Without all these at once before your eyes, 
Cavil you may, but never criticise. 
Be Homer's works your study and delight, 
Read them by day, and meditate by night ; 
Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring, 
And trace the muses upward to their spring. 
Still, with itself compared, his text peruse ; 
And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse. 

When first young Maro, in his boundless mind, 13° 

A work to outlast immortal Rome designed, 
Perhaps he seemed above the critic's law, 
And but from nature's fountain scorned to draw : 
But when to examine every part he came, 
Nature and Homer were, he found, the same. 
Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design: 
And rules as strict his labored work confine, 
As if the Stagirite o'erlooked each line. 
Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem ; 
To copy nature is to copy them. 14° 

Some beauties yet no precepts can declare, 
For there's a happiness as well as care. 
Music resembles poetry : in each 
Are nameless graces which no methods teach, 
And which a master-hand alone can reach. 
If, where the rules not far enough extend 
(Since rules were made but to promote their end), 



AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 537 

Some lucky license answer to the full 

The intent proposed, that license is a rule. 

Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, 15° 

May boldly deviate from the common track. 

Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, 

And rise to faults true critics dare not mend ; 

From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, 

And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, 

Which, without passing through the judgment, gains 

The heart, and all its end at once attains. 

In prospects, thus, some objects please our eyes, 

Which out of nature's common order rise, 

The shapeless rock or hanging precipice. 160 

But though the ancients thus their rules invade 

(As kings dispense with laws themselves have made), 

Moderns, beware ! or if you must offend 

Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end ; 

Let it be seldom, and compelled by need ; 

And have, at least, their precedent to plead. 

The critic else proceeds without remorse, 

Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force. 

I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts 
Those freer beauties, even in them, seem faults. "7° 

Some figures monstrous and misshaped appear, 
Considered singly, or beheld too near, 
Which, but proportioned to their light, or place, 
Due distance reconciles to form and grace. 
A prudent chief not always must display 
His powers in equal ranks and fair array, 
But with the occasion and the place comply, 
Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly. 
Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, 
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. 1S0 

Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, 
Above the reach of sacrilegious hands ; 
Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage, 
Destructive war, and all-involving age. 
See, from each clime the learn'd their incense bring ; 



538 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Hear, in all tongues consenting Paeans ring ! 

In praise so just let every voice be joined, 

And fill the general chorus of mankind. 

Hail ! bards triumphant ! born in happier days ; 

Immortal heirs of universal praise ! 

Whose honors with increase of ages grow, 

As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow ; 

Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, 

And worlds applaud, that must not yet be found ! 

Oh may some spark of your celestial fire, 

The last, the meanest of your sons inspire, 

(That, on weak wings, from far pursues your flights, 

Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes), 

To teach vain wits a science little known, 

To admire superior sense, and doubt their own ! 



Of all the causes which conspire to blind 
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, 
What the weak head with strongest bias rules, 
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. 
Whatever nature has in worth denied, 
She gives in large recruits of needful pride ; 
For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find 
What wants in blood and spirits, swelled with wind : 
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, 
And fills up all the mighty void of sense. 
If once right reason drives that cloud away, 
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. 
Trust not yourself ; but your defects to know, 
Make use of every friend — and every foe. 

A little learning is a dangerous thing ; 
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring : 
There, shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 
And drinking largely sobers us again. 
Fired at first sight with what the muse imparts, 
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, 



AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 539 

While from the bounded level of our mind, 

Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; 

But, more advanced, behold, with strange surprise, 

New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 

So, pleased at first the towering Alps we try, 

Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky, 

The eternal snows appear already passed, 

And the first clouds and mountains seem the last : 

But, those attained, we tremble to survey 

The growing labors of the lengthened way, 230 

The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, 

Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise ! 

A perfect judge will read each work of wit 
With the same spirit that its author writ : 
Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find 
Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind; 
Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight, 
The generous pleasure to be charmed with wit. 
But, in such lays as neither ebb nor flow, 

Correctly cold, and regularly low, 240 

That, shunning faults, one quiet tenor keep ; 
We cannot blame indeed — but we may sleep. 
In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts 
Is not the exactness of peculiar parts ; 
'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, 
But the joint force and full result of all. 
Thus, when we view some well-proportioned dome 
(The world's just wonder, and even thine, O Rome !), 
No single parts unequally surprise, 

All comes united to the admiring eyes ; 250 

No monstrous height, or breadth, or length, appear ; 
The whole at once is bold, and regular. 

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, 
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. 
In every work regard the writer's end, 
Since none can compass more than they intend ; 
And if the means be just, the conduct true, 
Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due. 



540 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, 
To avoid great errors, . must the less commit : 
Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, 
For not to know some trifles is a praise. 
Most critics, fond of some subservient art, 
Still make the whole depend upon a part : 
They talk of principles, but notions prize, 
And all to one loved folly sacrifice. 

Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say, 
A certain bard encountering on the way, 
Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage, 
As e'er could Dennis, of the Grecian stage ; 
Concluding all were desperate sots and fools, 
Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. 
Our author, happy in a judge so nice, 
Produced his play, and begged the knight's advice ; 
Made him observe the subject and the plot, 
The manners, passions, unities ; what not ? 
All which, exact to rule, were brought about, 
Were but a combat in the lists left out. 
"What! leave the combat out?" exclaims the knight. 
" Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite." 
" Not so, by heaven ! " (he answers in a rage) 
" Knights, squires, and steeds must enter on the stage." 
" So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain." 
" Then build a new, or act it in a plain." 

Thus critics of less judgment than caprice, 
Curious, not knowing, not exact, but nice, 
Form short ideas ; and offend in arts 
(As most in manners) by a love to parts. 

Some to conceit alone their taste confine, 
And glittering thoughts struck out at every line ; 
Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit ; 
One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. 
Poets, like painters, thus, unskilled to trace 
The naked nature and the living grace, 
With gold and jewels cover every part, 
And hide with ornaments their want of art. 



AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 541 

True wit is nature to advantage dressed ; 

What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed; 

Something, whose truth convinced at sight we find, 

That gives us back the image of our mind. 300 

As shades more sweetly recommend the light, 

So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. 

For works may have more wit than does them good, 

As bodies perish through excess of blood. 

Others for language all their care express, 
And value books, as women men, for dress : 
Their praise is still — " the style is excellent : " 
The sense, they humbly take upon content. 
Words are like leaves ; and, where they most abound, 
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found : 310 

False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, 
Its gaudy colors spreads on every place; 
The face of nature we no more survey, 
All glares alike, without distinction gay : 
But true expression, like the unchanging sun, 
Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon ; 
It gilds all objects, but it alters none. 
Expression is the dress of thought, and still 
Appears more decent, as more suitable ; 

A vile conceit, in pompous words expressed, 320 

Is like a clown in regal pnrple dressed : 
For different styles with different subjects sort, 
As several garbs with country, town, and court. 
Some by old words to fame have made pretence, 
Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense ; 
Such labored nothings, in so strange a style, 
Amaze the unlearn'd, and make the learned smile. 
Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, 
These sparks with awkward vanity display 

What the fine gentleman wore yesterday ; 33° 

And but so mimic ancient wits at best, 
As apes our grandsires in their doublets dressed. 
In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold, 
Alike fantastic if too new or old. 



542 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Be not the first by whom the new are tried, 
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 

But most by numbers judge a poet's song, 
And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong ; 
In the bright muse though thousand charms conspire, 
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ; 340 

Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, 
Not mend their minds ; as some to church repair, 
Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 
These equal syllables alone require, 
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire ; 
While expletives their feeble aid do join 
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line ; 
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, 
With sure returns of still expected rhymes ; 

Where'er you find " the cooling western breeze," 35° 

In the next line, it " whispers through the trees : " 
If crystal streams " with pleasing murmurs creep," 
The reader's threatened (not in vain) with " sleep : " 
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught 
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 
A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 

Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know 
What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow ; 
And praise the easy vigor of a line, 3 6 ° 

Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. 
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, 
As those move easiest who have learned to dance. 
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, 
The sound must seem an echo to the sense. 
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; 
But when loud surges iash the sounding shore, 
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar : 
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 37° 

The line, too, labors, and the words move slow ; 
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, 



AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 543 

Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. 

Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, 

And bid alternate passions fall and rise ! 

While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove 

Now burns with glory, and then melts with love ; 

Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, 

Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow : 

Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, 380 

And the world's victor stood subdued by sound ! 

The power of music all our hearts allow, 

And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. 

Avoid extremes ; and shun the fault of such, 
Who still are pleased too little or too much. 
At every trifle scorn to take offence, 
That always shows great pride, or little sense : 
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, 
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. 
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move ; 39° 

For fools admire, but men of sense approve : 
As things seem large which we through mist descry, 
Dulness is ever apt to magnify. 

Some foreign writers, some our own despise ; 
The ancients only, or the moderns prize. 
Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied 
To one small sect, and all are damned beside. 
Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, 
And force that sun but on a part to shine, 

Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, 4°° 

But ripens spirits in cold northern climes ; 
Which from the first has shone on ages past, 
Enlights the present, and shall warm the last; 
Though each may feel increases and decays, 
And see now clearer and now darker days. 
Regard not then if wit be old or new, 
But blame the false, and value still the true. 

Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, 
But catch the spreading notion of the town ; 
They reason and conclude by precedent, 4 10 



544 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. 

Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then 

Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. 

Of all this servile herd, the worst is he 

That in proud dulness joins with quality. 

A constant critic at the great man's board, 

To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord. 

What woful stuff this madrigal would be, 

In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! 

But let a lord once own the happy lines, 420 

How the wit brightens ! how the style refines ! 

Before his sacred name flies every fault, 

And each exalted stanza teems with thought ! 

The vulgar thus through imitation err ; 
As oft the learn'd by being singular : 
So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng 
By chance go right, they purposely go wrong : 
So schismatics the plain believers quit, 
And are but damned for having too much wit. 
Some praise at morning what they blame at night ; 430 

But always think the last opinion right. 
A muse by these is like a mistress used, 
This hour she's idolized, the next abused ; 
While their weak heads, like towns unfortified, 
'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side. 
Ask them the cause ; they're wiser still they say; 
And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day. 
We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow ; 
Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so. 

Once school-divines this zealous isle o'erspread. 440 

Who knew most sentences was deepest read ; 
Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed, 
And none had sense enough to be confuted : 
Scotists and Thomists now in peace remain, 
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck Lane. 
If faith itself has different dresses worn, 
What wonder modes in wit should take their turn? 
Oft, leaving what is natural and fit, 



AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 545 

The current folly proves the ready wit ; 

And authors think their reputation safe, 45° 

Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh. 

Some valuing those of their own side or mind, 
Still make themselves the measure of mankind : 
Fondly we chink we honor merit then, 
When we but praise ourselves in other men. 
Parties in wit attend on those of state, 
And public faction doubles private hate. 
Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rose, 
In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux; 
But sense survived, when merry jests were past ; 460 

For rising merit will buoy up at last. 
Might he return, and bless once more our eyes, 
New Blackmores and new Millbourns must arise : 
Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head, 
Zoilus again would start up from the dead. 
Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue ; 
But like a shadow, proves the substance true : 
For envied wit, like Sol eclipsed, makes known 
The opposing body's grossness, not its own. 
When first that sun too powerful beams displays, 47° 

It draws up vapors which obscure its rays ; 
But even those clouds at last adorn its way, 
Reflect new glories, and augment the day. 

Be thou the first true merit to befriend ; 
His praise is lost who stays till all commend. 
Short is the date, alas ! of modern rhymes, 
And 'tis but just to let them live betimes. 
No longer now that golden age appears, 
When patriarch-wits survived a thousand years : 
Now length of fame (our second life) is lost, 4 8 ° 

And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast ; 
Our sons their fathers' failing language see, 
And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. 
So when the faithful pencil has designed 
Some bright idea of the master's mind, 
Where a new world leaps out at his command, 



546 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And ready nature waits upon his hand ; 

When the ripe colors soften and unite, 

And sweetly melt into just shade and light ; 

When mellowing years their full perfection give, 49° 

And each bold figure just begins to live, 

The treacherous colors the fair art betray, 

And all the bright creation fades away ! 

Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things, 
Atones not for that envy which it brings. 
In youth alone its empty praise we boast, 
But soon the short-lived vanity is lost : 
Like some fair flower the early spring supplies, 
That gayly blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. 
What is this wit, which must our cares employ ? 5 00 

The owner's wife, that other men enjoy ; 
Then most our trouble still when most admired, 
And still the more we give, the more required ; 
Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, 
Sure some to vex, but never all to please ; 
'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun, 
By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone ! 

If wit so much from ignorance undergo, 
Ah ! let not learning too commence its foe ! 
Of old, those met rewards who could excel, 510 

And such were praised who but endeavored well : 
Though triumphs were to generals only due, 
Crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too. 
Now they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown, 
Employ their pains to spurn some others down ; 
And, while self-love each jealous writer rules, 
Contending wits become the sport of fools : 
But still the worst with most regret commend, 
For each ill author is as bad a friend. 

To what base ends, and by what abject ways, 5 20 

Are mortals urged, through sacred lust of praise ! 
Ah, ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, 
Nor in the critic let the man be lost. 



AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 547 

Good-nature and good sense must ever join ; 
To err is human, to forgive, divine. 

But if in noble minds some dregs remain, 
Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain ; 
Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes, 
Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times. 

No pardon vile obscenity should find, 530 

Though wit and art conspire to move your mind ; 
But dulness with obscenity must prove 
As shameful sure as impotence in love. 
In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease, 
Sprung the rank weed, and thrived with large increase: 
When love was all an easy monarch's care ; 
Seldom at council, never in a war : 
Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ ; 
Nay, wits had pensions, and young lords had wit : 
The fair sat panting at a courtier's play, 540 

And not a mask went unimproved away : 
The modest fan was lifted up no more, 
And virgins smiled at what they blushed before. 
The following license of a foreign reign, 
Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain ; 
Then unbelieving priests reformed the nation, 
And taught more pleasant methods of salvation ; 
Where Heaven's free subjects might their rights dispute, 
Lest God himself should seem too absolute : 
Pulpits their sacred satire learned to spare, 55° 

And vice admired to find a flatterer there ! 
Encouraged thus, wit's Titans braved the skies, 
And the press groaned with licensed blasphemies. 

These monsters, critics ! with your darts engage, 
Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage ! 
Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice, 
Will needs mistake an author into vice ; 
All seems infected that the infected spy, 
As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye. 



548 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



Learn, then, what morals critics ought to show. 5 6 ° 

For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know. 
'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join ; 
In all you speak, let truth and candor shine : 
That not alone what to your sense is due 
All may allow ; but seek your friendship too. 

Be silent always, when you doubt your sense ; 
And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence : 
Some positive, persisting fops we know, 
Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so ; 
But you, with pleasure, own your errors past, 57° 

And make each day a critique on the last. 

'Tis not enough your counsel still be true ; 
Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do ; 
Men must be taught as if you taught them not, 
And things unknown proposed as things foxgot. 
Without good breeding truth is disapproved ; 
That only makes superior sense beloved. 

Be niggards of advice on no pretence ; 
For the worst avarice is that of sense. 

With mean complacence, ne'er betray your trust, 5^° 

Nor be so civil as to prove unjust. 
Fear not the anger of the wise to raise 
Those best can bear reproof who merit praise. 

'Twere well might critics still this freedom take, 
But Appius reddens at each word you speak, 
And stares, tremendous, with a threatening eye, 
Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry. 
Fear most to tax an honorable fool, 
Whose right it is, uncensured, to be dull 

Such, without wit, are poets when they please, 59° 

As, without learning, they can take degrees. 
Leave dangerous truths to unsuccessful satires, 
And flattery to fulsome dedicators, 
Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more, 
Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er. 



AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 549 

'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain, 
And charitably let the dull be vain : 
Your silence there is better than your spite, 
For who can rail so long as they can write ? 

Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep, 60c 

And, lashed so long, like tops, are lashed asleep. 
False steps but help them to renew the race, 
As, after stumbling, jades will mend their pace. 
What crowds of these, impenitently bold, 
In sounds and jingling syllables grown old, 
Still run on poets in a raging vein, 
Even to the dregs and squeezing of the brain ; 
Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense, 
And rhyme with all the rage of impotence ! 

Such shameless bards we have ; and yet, 'tis true, 610 

There are as mad, abandoned critics, too. 
The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, 
With loads of learned lumber in his head, 
With his own tongue still edifies his ears, 
And always listening to himself appears. 
All books he reads, and all he reads assails, 
From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales. 
With him most authors steal their works, or buy ; 
Garth did not write his own Dispensary. 

Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend, 620 

Nay, showed his faults — but when would poets mend? 
No place so sacred from such fops is barred, 
Nor is Paul's Church more safe than Paul's Churchyards 
Nay, fly to altars ; there they'll talk you dead ; 
For fools rush in where angels fear to tread. 
Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, 
It still looks home, and short excursions makes ; 
But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks, 
And, never shocked, and never turned aside, 
Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering tide. J 3 C 

But where's the man who counsel can bestow, 
Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know ? 
Unbiassed, or by favor, or in spite ; 



550 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right ; 

Though learn'd, well-bred ; and though well-bred, sincere ,° 

Modestly bold, and humanly severe ; 

Who to a friend his faults can freely show, 

And gladly praise the merit of a foe ? 

Blessed with a taste exact, yet unconfined ; 

A knowledge both of books and human kind ; 640 

Generous converse ; a soul exempt from pride ; 

And love to praise, with reason on his side ? 

Such once were critics : such the happy few, 
Athens and Rome in better ages knew. 
The mighty Stagirite first left the shore, 
Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore ; 
He steered securely, and discovered far, 
Led by the light of the Maeonian star. 
Poets, a race long unconfined and free, 

Still fond and proud of savage liberty, 650 

Received his laws ; and stood convinced 'twas fit, 
Who conquered nature, should preside o'er wit. 

Horace still charms with graceful negligence, 
And without method talks us into sense ; 
Will, like a friend, familiarly convey 
The truest notions in the easiest way. 
He who, supreme in judgment as in wit, 
Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ, 
Yet judged with coolness, though he sung with fire ; 
His precepts teach but what his works inspire. 660 

Our critics take a contrary extreme. 
They judge with fury, but they write with phlegm : 
Nor surfers Horace more in wrong translations 
By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations. 



NOTES TO ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 551 



NOTES TO ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 

(The numbers refer to lines. Consult Painter's "Guide to Literary Criticism" 
chapters VII and VIII.) 

4. Sense = understanding, judgment. 

15. Who has such for its antecedent. The meaning is, Let those who 
excel teach others. 

17. Wit = genius. As we shall see, wit is used in a variety of mean- 
ings in the poem. 

20. Most qualifies persons understood. The full form of expression 
would be, "We shall find (that) most (persons) have," etc. 

26. Schools = different systems of philosophy, science, and theology. 

34. McEvius = an insignificant poet of the Augustan age, who attacked 
the writings of Virgil and Horace. He owes the preservation of his name to 
the fact that these two great poets made him a subject of ridicule. — Apollo 
was the president and protector of the Muses. 

35. Who has those understood as its antecedent. "There are (those) 
who judge," etc. 

36. Wits = men of learning or genius. 

43. Their generation, etc. = their formation is so doubtful, uncertain. 
A reference to the belief that insects were generated by the mud of the Nile. 

52. Fit = suitable, proper. 

53. Wit = intellect, mind. 

66. Several = separate, particular. 

72. Life, force, and beauty are in the objective case after must impart. 

73. This line is in apposition with nature. 

76. Informing = imbuing and actuating with vitality. 

80. Wit = genius; but as implied in the next line, judgment. 

84. ' Tis more to guide = it is more important to guide. 

86. Winged courser = Pegasus, a winged horse of the Muses. 

92. Indites = composes, produces. 

94. Parnassus = a mountain in Greece, celebrated in mythology as 
sacred to Apollo and the Muses. 

97. Equal steps = like or corresponding steps. 

109. Bills = prescriptions. 

120. Fable— plot. 



552 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

124. Homer = the author of the " Iliad," and the greatest epic poet of 
antiquity. Seven Grecian cities contended for the honor of having given him 
birth. 

129. Mantuan Muse = Virgil, who was born near Mantua, 70 B.C. 
After Homer, the greatest poet of antiquity. His full name was Publius Vir- 
gilius Maro, the latter part of which appears in the next line. It is said that 
before writing the "^Eneid," he contemplated a poem on Alban and Reman 
affairs, but found the subject beyond his powers. 

133. But = except. 

138. Stagirite — Aristotle. He was born at Stagira, a town in Mace- 
donia; hence the name Stagirite. 

142. Happiness = fortuitous elegance or felicity of expression. 

158. Prospects = landscapes. 

183. Secure from flames, etc. — "The poet here alludes to the four 
principal causes of the ravage among ancient writings. The destruction of 
the Alexandrine and Palatine libraries byflre, the fiercer rage of Zoilus, Mce- 
vius, and their followers, against wit; the irruption of the Barbarians into 
the empire; and the long reign of ignorance and superstition in the cloisters." 
— Warton. 

186. Pecans = a song of rejoicing, among the ancients, in honor of 
Apollo. 

216. Pierian = pertaining to the Muses. From Mount Pierus, in Thes- 
saly, sacred to the Muses. 

218. Drinking largely is the subject of sobers. 

237. That maligant dull delight, that is, of seeking to find slight faults. 

248. Even thine, Pome ! = the dome of St. Peter's, designed by 
Michael Angelo. 

265. Notions = judgments, opinions. 

267. La Mancha's Knight = Don Quixote, the hero of a work written 
by Cervantes, a Spanish author, in 1605. 

270. Dennis = a mediocre author, born in 1657. For an account of his 
literary quarrels, see the sketch of Pope. 

286. Curious = difficult to please. — Nice = over-scrupulous, hard to 
please. 

289. Conceit = odd, fanciful notion, affected conception. 

308. Content = acquiescence without examination. 

322. Sort =suit, fit. 

328. Fungoso = a character in one of Ben Jonson's plays, who assumed 
the dress and tried to pass himself off for another. 

329. Sparks = gay, showy men. 
337. Most = most persons or critics. 
344. These = these persons. 



NOTES TO ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 553 

356. Alexandrine = a verse consisting of twelve syllables; so called 
from a French poem on the life of Alexander written in that measure. The 
next line is an Alexandrine. 

361. Sir John Denham was born at Dublin in 1615, and died in 1668. 
His poems contain here and there an expression of considerable force. — 
Edmund Waller was born in 1606 and died in 1687. See reference to Waller 
in preceding pages. 

366. Zephyr — strictly the west wind; but poetically, any soft, gentle 
breeze. 

370. Ajax = a hero of the Trojan war, represented by Homer as, next 
to Achilles, the bravest and handsomest of the Greeks. 

372. Camilla = Queen of the Volscians, an army of whom she led to 
battle against iEneas. She was so remarkable for her swiftness that she is 
described by the poets as flying over the corn without bending the stalks, and 
skimming over the surface of the water without wetting her feet. 

374. Timotheus = a celebrated musician of Thebes in Bceotia. Invited 
to attend the nuptials of Alexander the Great, he is said to have animated 
that monarch in so powerful a degree that he started up and seized his 
arms. Dryden made use of the incident in his celebrated ode, " Alexander's 
Feast." 

376. Son of Libyan Jove = a title assumed by Alexander. 

394. Some is the subject of despise understood. "Some (despite) 
foreign writers." 

400. Sublimes = exalts. 

404. Each qualifies age understood. 

415. Quality =high rank, superior birth or station. 

418. Madrigal = a short lyrical poem, adapted to the quaint and terse 
expression of some pleasant thought, generally on the subject of love. 

424. The vulgar = the common people. 

440. School-divines = school-men; that is, philosophers and divines of 
the Middle Ages, who adopted the principles of Aristotle, and spent much 
time on points of abstract speculation, sometimes ridiculous in character. 

441. Sentences = passages from recognized authorities in the church. 

444. Scotists — followers of Duns Scotus, one of the most famous school- 
men of the fourteenth century. He taught at Oxford and Paris. He was 
distinguished for the zeal and ability with which he defended the immaculate 
conception of the Virgin — a doctrine that was, in 1854, declared by papal 
authority to be a necessary article of the Roman Catholic faith. At the 
Renaissance the Scotists opposed the new learning, and added the word dunce, 
that is, a Dunsman, to our language. — Thomists = followers of Thomas 
Aquinas, one of the ablest school-men of the thirteenth century. He taught 
at Paris, Rome, Bologna, and Pisa. He denied the immaculate conception. 



554 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The works of these authors abounded, not in useful knowledge, but in fine- 
spun theories and argumentation. 

445. Dtick Lane = a place in London where old books were sold. 

447. " What wonder [is it that] modes in wit," etc. 

449. Ready = keen, prompt. Understand to be after proves. 

459. Parsons, critics, beaux. — Referring to Jeremy Collier, and the 
Duke of Buckingham. 

463. Blackmores = Sir Richard Blackmore, one of the court physicians 
in the reigns of William III. and Anne, and characterized " as the most volu- 
minous and heavy poetaster of his own or any other age." — Millboum — Rev. 
Luke Millbourn, who criticised Dryden with much justice. 

465. Zoilus = a grammarian and sophist of Amphipolis, who rendered 
himself known by his severe criticisms on the poems of Homer, for which he 
received the nickname, " Chastiser of Homer." See note on line 183. 

479. Patriarch-wits = the antediluvians. 

495. Brings— causes. 

496. Its refers to wit or genius. 

509. Commence = begin or appear to be. 

536. Easy monarch = Charles II. 

545. Socinus. — Faustus and Laelius Socinus were Italian theologians of 
the sixteenth century, who denied the Trinity, the deity of Christ, the person- 
ality of the devil, the native and total depravity of man, the vicarious atone- 
ment, and the eternity of future punishment. 

552. Titans — fabled giants of ancient mythology, who made war against 
the gods. 

564. Sense = judgment. The same also in line 566. 

585. Appius = Dennis. See sketch of Pope for an account of the 
literary quarrel of the two poets. 

599. So long = to such an extent. 

606. " Run on [as] poets" etc. 

617. Durfey = Thomas D'Urfey, a writer of plays and poems in the 
reign of Charles II., with whom he was a favorite for his wit, liveliness, and 
songs. He is best remembered for his collection of songs, entitled " Pills to 
Purge Melancholy," the tales here referred to by Pope. 

619. Garth = Sir Samuel Garth, an eminent physician and poet of 
some reputation, born in 1660. His professional skill was associated with 
great conversational powers. His best-known work is " The Dispensary," a 
poetical satire on the apothecaries and those physicians who sided with them 
in opposing the project of giving medicine gratuitously to the sick poor. 

623. PauTs Churchyard = headquarters of the London booksellers be- 
fore the great fire. 

645. Stagirite. — See note on line 138. 



NOTES TO ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 555 

648. Mceonia.11 star = Homer, who is supposed by some to have been 
born in Maeonia, a district in Asia Minor. Aristotle derived many of his 
elements of criticism from Homer. 

652. Who conquered nature = Aristotle, the greatest naturalist of his 
day. He wrote a Natural History, Physics, and Astronomy, in addition to 
his metaphysical treatises. 



SELECTIONS FROM THE AGE OF JOHNSON. 

(1745-1800.) 

I. 

DR. JOHNSON'S LETTER TO THE EARL OF 
CHESTERFIELD. 1 

My Lord, — I have lately been informed by the proprietor of The 
World that two papers in which my Dictionary is recommended 
to the public were written by your lordship. To be so distinguished 2 
is an honor which, being very little accustomed to favors from the 
great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to 
acknowledge. 

When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your 
lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the 
enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to wish that 
I might boast myself le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre 3 — that 
I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending ; 
but I found my attendance so little encouraged that neither pride 
nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When once I had 
addressed your lordship in public, I had exhausted all the art of 
pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had 
done all that I could ; and no man is well pleased to have his all 
neglected, be it ever so little. 

Seven years, my lord, have now passed since I waited in your 
outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door ; during which 
time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which 
it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge 
of publication, 4 without one act of assistance, one word of encour- 
agement, or one smile of favor. Such treatment I did not expect, 
for I never had a patron before. The shepherd in Virgil grew at 
last acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the rocks. 

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a 
man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached 
556 



SELECTIONS FROM JOHNSON. 557 

the ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have 
been pleased to take of my labors, had it been early, had been kind ; 
but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and can not enjoy 
it ; till I am solitary, 5 and can not impart it ; till I am known, 
and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity, not to 
confess obligations when no benefit has been received, or to be 
unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a 
patron which Providence has enabled me to do for myself. 

Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation 
to any favorer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I 
should conclude it, if less be possible, with less ; for I have long 
been wakened from that dream of hope in which I once boasted 
myself with so much exultation, my lord. 

Your lordship's most humble, most obedient servant, 6 

Samuel Johnson. 



THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. 4 

The cheerful sage, when solemn dictates fail, 
Concedes the moral counsel in a tale. 

— Horace. 

Obidah, the son of Abensina, 2 left the caravansera 3 early in the 
morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. 4 
He was fresh and vigorous- with rest; he was animated with hope; 
he was incited by desire ; he walked swiftly forward over the 
valleys, and saw the hills gradually rising before him. 5 As he 
passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of 
the bird of paradise, 6 he was fanned by the last flutters of the 
sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices ; he 
sometimes contemplated the towering height of the oak, monarch 
of the hills; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the 
primrose, eldest daughter of the spring; 7 all his senses were grati- 
fied, and all care was banished from his heart. 

Thus he went on till the sun approached his meridian, and the 
increasing heat preyed upon his strength ; he then looked round 
about him for some more commodious path. 

He saw, on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave its 
shades as a sign of invitation ; he entered it, and found the 
coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. He did not, however, 



558 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

forget whither he was travelling, but found a narrow way bor- 
dered with flowers, which appeared to have the same direction 
with the main road, and was pleased that, by this happy experi- 
ment, he had found means to unite pleasure with business, and to 
gain the rewards of diligence without suffering its fatigues. He, 
therefore, still continued to walk for a time, without the least re- 
mission of his ardor, except that he was sometimes tempted to 
stop by the music of the birds, whom 8 the heat had assembled in 
the shade; and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers 
that covered the banks on either side, or the fruits that hung upon 
the branches. At last the green path began to decline from its first 
tendency, and to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with foun- 
tains, and murmuring with water-falls. Here Obidah paused for 
a time, and began to consider whether it were longer safe to 
forsake the known and common track ; but remembering that the 
heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain 
was dusty and uneven, he resolved to pursue the new path, which 
he supposed only to make a few meanders, 9 in compliance with 
the varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the common 
road. 

Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though 
he suspected that he was not gaining ground. This uneasiness of 
his mind inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and give 
way to every sensation that might soothe or divert him. He listened 
to every echo, he mounted every hill for a fresh prospect, he 
turned aside to every cascade, and pleased himself with tracing 
the course of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and 
watered a large region with innumerable circumvolutions. In these 
amusements the hours passed away uncounted; his deviations had 
perplexed his memory, and he knew not toward what point to 
travel. He stood pensive and confused, afraid to go forward lest 
he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of loitering was 
now past. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky 
was overspread with clouds, the day vanished from before him, 
and a sudden tempest .gathered round his head. He was now 
roused by his danger to a quick and painful remembrance of his 
folly; he now saw how happiness is lost when ease is consulted; 
he lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to seek 
shelter in the grove, and despised the petty curiosity that led him 



SELECTIONS FROM JOHNSON. 559 

on from trifle to trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the air 
grew blacker, and a clap of thunder broke his meditation. 

He now resolved to do what yet remained in his power, to 
tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find some 
issue where the wood might open into the plain. He prostrated 
himself on the ground, and commended his life to the Lord of 
Nature. He rose with confidence and tranquillity, and pressed on 
with his sabre in his hand, for the beasts of the desert were in 
motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of 
rage and fear, and ravage and extirpation ; all the horrors of 
darkness and solitude surrounded him ; the winds roared in the 
woods, and the torrents tumbled from the hills, — 

Worked into sudden rage by wintry showers, 
Down the steep hill the roaring torrent pours ; 
The mountain shepherd hears the distant noise. 10 

Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild, 
without knowing whither he was going, or whether he was every 
moment drawing nearer to safety or to destruction. At length not 
fear but labor began to overtake him; his breath grew short, and 
his knees trembled, and he was on the point of lying down in 
resignation to his fate, when he beheld through the brambles the 
glimmer of a taper. He advanced towards the light/ and finding 
that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly 
at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before him 
such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah 
fed with eagerness and gratitude. 

When the repast was over, " Tell me," said the hermit, " by 
what chance thou hast been brought hither; I have been now 
twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw 
a man before." Obidah then related the occurrences of his journey, 
without any concealment or palliation. 

" Son," said the hermit, " let the errors and follies, the dangers 
and escape of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Remember, my 
son, that human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the 
morning of youth, full of vigor and full of expectation ; we set for- 
ward with spirit and hope, with gaiety and with diligence, and 
travel on a while in the straight road of piety towards the mansions 
of rest. In a short time we remit our fervor, and endeavor to find 



5 6o ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of obtain- 
ing the same end. We then relax our vigor, and resolve no longer to 
be terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own con- 
stancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never to touch. 
We thus enter the bowers of ease, 11 and repose in the shades of se- 
curity. How the heart softens, and vigilance subsides ; we are then 
willing to inquire whether another advance can not be made, and 
whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of 
pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation ; we enter 
them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass 
through them without losing the road of virtue, which we, for a 
while, keep in our sight, and to which we propose to return. But 
temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for 
another ; we, in time, lose the happiness of innocence, and solace our 
disquiet with sensual gratification. By degrees we let fall the re- 
membrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate ob- 
ject of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge 
ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of incon- 
stancy, till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease 
and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives 
with horror, with sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often 
vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. Happy 
are they, my son, who shall learn from thy example not to despair, 
but shall remember that though the day is past, and their strength 
is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made ; that reforma- 
tion is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavors ever unassisted, that 
the wanderer may at length return after all his errors, and that 
he who implores strength and courage from above, shall find 
danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to 
thy repose, commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence, and when 
the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy 
life." 



NOTES TO DR. JOHNSON'S LETTER. 

1. For a statement of the circumstances under which the letter 
was written, see the sketch in Part I. 

2. To be so distinguished = to have such eminence conferred. 



NOTES TO JOHNSON. 561 

3. The conqueror of the conqueror of the world. 

4. The Dictionary was published in 1755. 

5. His wife, to whom he was warmly devoted, had died two 
years before. 

6. It is not difficult to imagine something' of the satisfaction 
with which the sturdy, honest, independent scholar addressed the 
cutting words of this letter to a nobleman whose manners and 
character he cordially detested. 

THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. 

1. This allegory is the sixty-fifth number of The Rambler, which 
appeared October 30, 1750. It is there given without a title. Apart 
from its intrinsic excellence, it well illustrates the principal char- 
acteristics of Dr. Johnson's style — his copious use of the Latin 
element of our language, his formal dignity of style, and his deep 
moral earnestness. For particulars concerning The Rambler, con- 
sult the sketch of Johnson. 

2. These are, of course, fictitious names, but in keeping with the 
scene of the story, they have an Oriental sound. 

3. The present spelling of this word is caravansery. From Per. 
karwan, caravan, and sarai, palace. 

4. At present spelled Hindustan — the Persian name for India. 

5. This is a characteristic Johnsonian sentence. It consists of 
a succession of short sentences, leading up to a harmonious and 
well-rounded close. Point out other similar sentences in the selec- 
tion. 

6. This fancy is more beautiful than true. The bird of paradise 
is not a native of Hindustan, and its song is not pleasing'. 

7. Note the careful balancing of this and the preceding sentence. 
" The eldest daughter of the spring " stands in precisely the same 
construction as the " monarch of the hills." Point out other in- 
stances of parallelism. 

8. Present usage would require which, unless we regard the 
antecedent birds as personified. 

9. What is the etymology and meaning of meanders? 

10. This is a translation from the Greek, but the source of the 
quotation is not given. 

11. This use of the metaphor is characteristically Johnsonian. 
Point out other instances in this paper, and note their relation to 
the sonorous quality of the style. 



562 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

II. 

GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain ; 

Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain- 

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed : 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 

How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 

How often have I paused on every charm, 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blest the coming day, 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 

And all the village train from labour free, 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree. 

While many a pastime circled in the shade, 

The young contending as the old surveyed ; 

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. 

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown 

By holding out to tire each other down ; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 

The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, 

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, 

With sweet succession, taught even toil to please : 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed : 

These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 



THE DESERTED VILE AGE, 563 

Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 

And desolation saddens all thy green : 

One only master grasps the whole domain, 

And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 40 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 

But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; 

Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 

Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 

Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 

And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 

And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 

Far, far away thy children leave the land. 50 

111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made: 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintained its man ; 
For him light labour spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more : 60 

His best companions, innocence and health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
And every want to opulence allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that asked but little room, 7° 

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green ; 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 



564 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Here, as I take my solitary rounds 

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 

And, many a year elapsed, return to view 

Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 

Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down 5 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine, 
How happy he who crowns in shades like these 
A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; 
No surly porter stands in guilty, state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend ; 
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past ! 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
Up yonder. hill the village murmur rose. 
There, as I past with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came softened from below ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 565 

The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, 

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 

The playful children just let loose from school, 120 

The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, 

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; — 

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 

And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 

But now the sounds of population fail, 

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 

No busy steps the grass-grown foot- way tread, 

For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 

All but yon widowed, solitary thing, 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring : 13° 

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 

To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 

She only left of all the harmless train, 

The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 14° 

A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place ; 
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain : 15° 

The long remembered beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away, 



566 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Wept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done, 

Shouldered his crutch and shewed how fields were won. 

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 

And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 160 

Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 

His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came clown the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 180 

The service past, around the pious man, 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children followed with endearing wile, 
And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest ; 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest : 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 190 

Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 



THE DESERTED VI EL AGE. 567 

A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 

I knew him well, and every truant knew : 

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 

The day's disasters in his morning face ; 200 

Full well they, laughed with counterfeited glee 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 

Full well the busy whisper circling round 

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. 

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 

The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 

The village all declared how much he knew : 

'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 

And even the story ran that he could gauge : 210 

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 

For, even tho' vanquished, he could argue still ; 

While words of learned length and thundering sound 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 220 

Now lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, 
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, 
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlour splendours of that festive place : 
The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door ; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 230 

The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay ; 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 



568 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Vain transitory splendours ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 

An hour's importance to the poor man's heart 240 

Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art ; 
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, 
The soul adopts, and owns their first born sway; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed — - 260 

In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 270 

Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 569 

Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 

Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 

The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 

Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth ; 280 

His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 

Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: 

Around the world each needful product flies, 

For all the luxuries the world supplies ; 

While thus the land adorned for pleasure all 

In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female unadorned and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 290 

But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed : 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed, 
But verging to decline, its splendours rise ; 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise : 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band, 3 00 

And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where, shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped — what waits him there? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 310 

To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see those joys the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 



570 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 

The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign 

Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train : 320 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 

Sure these denote one universal joy ! 

Are these thy serious thoughts? — Ah, turn thine eyes 

Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 33° 

Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled, 

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 

And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, 

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 

When idly first, ambitious of the town, 

She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, — thine, the loveliest train,— 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 34° 

Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there from all that charnvd before 
The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 35° 

Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
And savage men more murderous still than they ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 571 

While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 

Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 

Far different these from every former scene, 

The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, 360 

The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 

That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, 
That called them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last 
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main, 
And shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 370 

The good old sire that first prepared to go 
To new found worlds, and wept for others 1 woe ; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lovers for a father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 380 

And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear, 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own. 39° 

At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

Even now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done ; 



572 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 

I see the rural virtues leave the land. 

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 

That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 

Downward they move, a melancholy band, 

Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 

Contented toil, and hospitable care, 

And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 

And piety with wishes placed above, 

And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 

Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 

Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 

To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 

My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 

Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 

That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 

Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! 

Farewell, and O ! where'er thy voice be tried, 

On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 

Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 

Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 

Redress the rigours of the inclement clime ; 

Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 

Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 

Teach him, that states of native strength possessed, 

Tho' very poor, may still be very blessed ; 

That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 

As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away ; 

While self-dependent power can time defy, 

As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



NOTES TO THE DESERTED VIELAGE. 573 



NOTES TO THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

(The numbers refer to lines. Consult Painter's " Guide to Literary Criticism," 
Parts I and III.) 

For general remarks on the poem, see the sketch of Goldsmith. 

1. Auburn = Lissoy probably, though with the addition of imaginative 
details. 

2. Swain = peasant. A favorite word among the poets of the last cen- 
tury, by whom it was used in a somewhat vague sense as "shepherd," 
"lover," or " young man." 

4. Parting = departing. For the same use of the word, see the first 
line of Gray's " Elegy." 

5. Bowers = dwellings. By poets often used somewhat vaguely. 

6. Seats = abodes. 
10. Cot— cottage. 

12. Decent = neat, becoming. 

13. Hawthorn. — The hawthorn bushes around Lissoy have been cut to 
pieces to furnish souvenirs of the locality. 

16, Remitting = ceasing for a time. 

17. Train. — See note to line 6 of " The Cotter's Saturday Night." 
19. Circled — went round. See line 22. 

21. Gambol frolicked '= sportive trick was played in a frolicsome manner. 

35. Lawn= plain. See line 1. 

37 '. Tyrant = Some wealthy land-owner. Goldsmith deplores the ac- 
cumulation of land in the hands of great land-owners, to be used by them, 
not for careful tillage, but in great measure for ostentation and pleasure. 

39. One only master = one sole master. 

40. Stints — deprives of fruitfulness and beauty. 

43. Glades— open spaces, usually low and moist or marshy. 

45. Walks = range, region. — Lapwing = a. wading bird of the plover 
family. See Webster. 

49. Shrinking, etc. — Owing to the absorption of the land by great pro- 
prietors, the peasantry were forced to emigrate. 

52. Decay = decrease in number. 

55. Goldsmith is here partly right and partly wrong. "A bold peas- 
antry " is undoubtedly necessary to the highest welfare of a country. But 
when, in the following lines, he inveighs against commerce and manufacture, 



574 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

he makes a mistake. These do not injure a country, but increase its wealth, 
population, and intelligence. When, however, he denounces luxury, which 
unfortunately he sometimes confounds with trade, he has the approval of all 
right-thinking men. 

63. Trade's unfeeling train = those enriched by commerce and manu- 
facture. 

81. Busy train = thronging reminiscences of the past. 
85. These lines express a real wish of Goldsmith's, but one that was des- 
tined not to be fulfilled. The reality of the desire renders these lines pathetic. 
88. By repose modifies keep. 
100. Age = old age. 

105. Guilty state. — State here means livery ; and it is called guilty 
because regarded by the poet as an evidence of criminal avarice and luxury. 

107. He = the person spoken of in line 99. — Latter end '= a Biblical 
phrase meaning death. See Prov. xix. 20. 
no. Slopes = eases. 
115. Careless = without care or anxiety. 

121. Bayed = barked at. O. Fr. abayer, to bark. 

122. Spoke = indicated. 

123. The shade = the shadows of " evening's close." 
126. Fluctuate in the gale = float on the breezes. 
128. Bloomy = blooming. 

130. Flashy = puddle-like. 

132. Mantling = covering as with a cloak or mantle. 

136. Pensive = expressing thoughtfulness with sadness. 

137. Copse = a thicket of underwood. Cf. coppice. 

139. Disclose = reveal, mark. 

140. Mansion = house, habitation; usually one of some size or pre- 
tensions. 

142. Passing rich = more than rich, very rich. 

144. Place = post, position. 

149. Vagrant train = wandering company; tramps. 

155. Broken = broken down by age, sickness, or some other cause. 

159. Glo7v = kindle with interest or enthusiasm. 

171. Parting. — See line 4. 

189. As some tall cliffy etc. —This has been pronounced one of the 

sublimes! similes in the English language. 

[04. Furze a thorny evergreen shrub. It is called " unprofitable 
gay" because, in spite of its beautiful yellow flowers, it is of no practical use. 

196. The village master ■■ Paddy Byrne. S :e sketch of Goldsmith. 

1 no. B fin foreboding. 

209. 'Terms and tide* — seasons and times. 



NOTES TO THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 575 

2IO. Gauge = measure the capacity of vessels. 

221. Nut-brozvn draughts = draughts of nut-brown ale. With his con- 
vivial habits, we may be sure that Goldsmith was not a stranger to the scenes 
he here describes. 

229. Double debt to pay = to serve a double use. 

231. For ornament and use. — They were probably used to hide defects 
in the walls. 

232. Twelve good rules. — These are worth repeating: 1. Urge no 
healths. • 2. Profane no divine ordinances. 3. Touch no state matters. 4. 
Reveal no secrets. 5. Pick no quarrels. 6. Make no comparisons. 7. 
Maintain no ill opinions. 8. Keep no bad company. 9. Encourage no vice. 
IO. Make no long meals. 11. Repeat no grievances. 12. Lay no wagers. 
— Game of goose = the game of the fox and the geese. 

236. Chimney = fireplace. 

243. Farmer's news. — His visits to the neighboring markets would 
naturally make him the newsman. — Barber's tale. — The endless loquacity 
of barbers is a continual theme for jest or disgust among the writers of the 
time. 

244. Woodman' 's ballad = perhaps some tale of Robin Hood. 
248. Mantling bliss = foam-covered ale. 

257. Vacant = unembarrassed with care. 

259. Pomp = procession. 

269. Freighted = loaded for shipment. 

276. Poor is the object of supplied. 

285. All = entirely. 

293. To bless— to bestow her heart and hand. 

300. Band = family. 

305. Common = enclosed tract of land belonging, not to an individual, 
but to the public. 

316. Artist = artisan. 

319. Dome — palace. 

321. Blazitig square, that is, filled with torches, which the rich used 
before the introduction of street-lights. 

344. Altama — Altamaha in Georgia. "The various terrors" enumer- 
ated are apt to provoke a smile. 

355. Crouching tigers. — These exist in Georgia only in the poet's 
imagination. 

403. Shore, strand. — By strand the poet means the line of sand next 
the sea; by shore, the ground above the sand. 

418. Tor no's cliffs = the heights around Lake Tornea in the north of 
Sweden. — Pambamarca = a mountain near Quito in South America. 



576 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

III. 
BURNS' COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

Inscribed to R. Aikin, Esq. 

" Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor." 
Gray. 

I. 

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end ; 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 

What Aikin in a cottage would have been : 
Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, 1 ween. 



November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh : 

The shortening winter-day is near a close : 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 

The blackening trains o 1 craws to their repose : 
The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 



At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree : 

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher thro' 
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 577 

His wee bit ingle, blinkin 1 bonnily, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. 



Belyve, the elder bairns come drappin' in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' : 
Some ca 1 the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e 1 e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, 

Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 



Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, 

And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet : 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view ; 
The mother, wi 1 her needle an' her shears, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a 1 wi' admonition due. 



Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
An' mind their labours wi 1 an eydent hand, 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play: 
" An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

An 1 mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord aright ! " 



57^ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o 1 the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam 1 o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. 



Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben : 

A strappin 1 youth ; he taks the mother's eye; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 



O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heart-felt raptures ! — bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
" If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 

In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.' 



Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 
A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 579 

Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild? 90 



But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food.: 
The sowpe their only hawkie does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood ; 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell - 
An' aft he's prest, an 1 aft he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 



The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride ; 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air. 



They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name, 
Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 



5 8o 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 



Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 130 

How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's com- 
mand. 



Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 



Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 
In all the pomp of method and of art, 

When men display to congregations wide, 
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 

The Pow'r, incensed, the pageant will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 

But, haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; 
And in the book of life the inmates poor enrol. 



Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest; 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 



From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her loved at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God : " 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ? — a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 



O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be bless'd with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 
And, O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle. 



58i 



582 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



O Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide 

That stream'd thro 1 Wallace's undaunted heart, 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part : 
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



TO A MOUSE. 

On Turning Her up in her Nest with the Plough, 
November, 17S5. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murdering pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

An' fellow-mortal ! 



I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, 

And never miss't ! 



TO A MOUSE. 583 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 20 

An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O 1 foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
And weary winter comin' fast, 
And cozie, here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 30 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld! 



But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An 1 lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear; 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 



584 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 

On Turning One Down with the Plough in April, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thoirs met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush among the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem ! 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi 1 spreckl'd breast, 
When upward-springing, blithe to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O" clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 585 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet flowVet of the rural shade \ 
By love's simplicity betrayed, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 



Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 

By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of eVry stay but Heav'n, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom ! 



586 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

{The numbers refer to lines. Consult Painter's " Guide to Literary Criticism," 
Part III. 

This is the best known of Burns's longer poems. As we have already 
learned from our study of the poet, his father's cottage supplied the principal 
features. But the poem has a fai wider significance. It is a description of the 
ideal peasant life of Scotland. In its substantial elements, an exemplification 
might have been found in a thousand homes. Said an old Scotch serving- 
woman, to whom a copy of "The Cotter's Saturday Night " had been given 
for perusal, " Gentlemen and ladies may thin,k muckle o' this; but for me it's 
naething but what I saw i' my faither's house every day, and I dinna see how 
he could hae tell't it ony ither way." 

It would lead us too far to inquire particularly into the causes that have 
produced this beautiful peasant life. No doubt the basis of it is to be found 
in the native sturdiness of the Scotch character. But the immediate cause 
must be sought in religion. The truths and duties of Christianity occupied a 
large place in the daily thought and life. The sentiment of reverence, which 
seems to be sadly lacking at the present time, was carefully cultivated. Fam- 
ily worship was general ; the Sabbath was strictly observed ; the Bible was 
revered and studied to an unusual degree. " The Cotter's Saturday Night " 
shows us how a humble, laboring life may be glorified by a simple, earnest, 
reverent piety. 

i. R. Aikin, to whom the poem is inscribed, was an attorney of Ayr, 
and a man of worth. 

2. Mercenary bard. — The poem was inspired, not by the hope of pe- 
cuniary reward, but simply by the promptings of friendly affection. 

5. Lays = songs, lyric poems. A favorite word with poets in the last 
century. 

6. Train = class, company. Another favorite word, much used by 
Goldsmith in the "Deserted Village." 

9. Ween = think, imagine. From A. S. wenan, to imagine. 
10. Sugh = a sighing sound as of wind in the trees. The local fea- 
tures of the poem are in the Ayrshire dialect, the poet's vernacular. 
12. Miry = covered with mire or wet soil. — Pletigh = plough. 

14. Cotter = cottager; a small farmer. 

15. Moil = toil, drudgery. 



NOTES TO THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 5§7 

17. Morn = morrow. 

19. Cot = cottage. 

21. Wee-things = little things, children. — Stacker = stagger. 

22. Flichterin'' = fluttering. 

23. Ingle = fire, fireplace. — Blinkin'' bonnily = blazing cheerfully. 

26. Carking= distressing, oppressive. 

27. 7"oz7. — This word seems to have been pronounced tile. In the last 
century oi frequently had the sound of long i. 

28. Belyve = by and by. — Bairns = children. 

30. Ca' the pleugh = drive the plough. Literally, call. — Tentie rin = 
heedfully run. Tentie is a corruption of attentive. 

31. Cannie = trustworthy, careful. — Neebor = neighbor. 

34. Braw = brave, in the sense oijine, handsome. 

35. Deposit has the accent on the first syllable. — Sair-won = hard von. 
— Penny fee = wages paid in money. Penny is used vaguely for money. 

38. Spiers = inquires. 

40. Uncos = news. 

44. Gars aula 7 claes, etc. = makes old clothes look almost as well as the 
new. 

47. Younkers = youngsters. 

48. Eydent = diligent. 

49. Jatik = trifle, dally. 

51. Duty = prayers. 

52. Gang =5: go. 

56. Wha kens = who knows. 

58. Convoy = accompany. 

59. Conscious = tell-tale. 
62. Hafflins = partly, half. 

64. Ben =in. A. S. binnan, within. 

67. Cracks = talks. — A^'^ = cows. 

69. Blate = bashful. — Laithfif == hesitating. 

72. lave — rest. 

88. 7??^ = pity, tenderness. 

92. Halesome parritch = wholesome porridge, oatmeal pudding. 

93. Sowpe = milk. — Hazvkie = a cow; properly one with a white 
face. 

94. 'Yont= beyond. — Hallan — screen or low partition between the 
fireplace and the door. — Chows her cool = chews her cud. 

96. Weel-hairtd = well kept. — Kebbuck = cheese. — iv// — tasty, 
biting. 

99. //c>7# 77£>tf.y <? towmond, etc. = how it was a twelvemonth old since 

flax was in the bloom ; that is, the cheese was a year old last flax-blossoming. 



588 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

103. Ha'-Bible = hall Bible; that is, the family Bible kept in the hall 
or chief room. 

104. Bonnet = a cap or covering for the head, in common use before 
the introduction of hats, and still used by the Scotch. 

105. Lyart = gray, mixed gray. — Haffets = temples; literally, half- 
heads. 

107. Wales = chooses. Cf. Ger. wahlen, to choose. 

in. Dundee, Martyrs, Elgin = names of Scottish psalm-tunes. 

113. Beets = adds fuel to. 

121. Atnalek's ungracious progeny = the Amalekites, a fierce and war- 
like Canaanitish nation. They were uncompromising in their hostility to the 
Israelites. See Deut. xxv. 17-19. 

122. Royal bard = David. See 2 Sam. xii. 16. 

133. He = the Apostle John. — Pat?nos = an island in the ^gean Sea, 
to which John was banished in the year 94, and where he wrote Revelation. 

135. Babylon = the figurative Babylon spoken of in Rev. xviii. 2-24. 
Usually interpreted among Protestants as referring to papal Rome. 

138. From Pope's "Windsor Forest." 

143. Society = social enjoyment. 

150. Sacerdotal stole = priestly vestments or robes. 

156. Secret homage = private devotions. 

166. From Pope's " Essay on Man." 

182. Wallace = the national hero of Scotland. He lived in the thirteenth 
century. 



TO A MOUSE. 

1. Sleekit = sly. — Cow'rin' — cowering, crouching through fear. 

4. Bicker ing brattle = a short race. 

5. Wad be, etc. = would be loathe to run. 

6. Pattle = a paddle for cleaning the soil from the plough. 

13. Whyles = sometimes. 

14. Matin = must. 

15. Daimen = rare, -now and then; daimen-icker = an ear of corn now 
and then. — T/irave— two shocks or twenty-four sheaves of corn; a consider- 
able quantity. 

20. Silly = frail, weak. — Wd's = walls. 

21. Big = to build. 

22. Foggage = coarse grass. 
24. Snell= bitter, severe. 
31. Stibble = stubble. 



NOTES TO A MOUSE AND TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 589 

34. But = without. A. S. btttan, without. — Hald = home, abiding 
place. 

35. Thole = endure. — Dribble = drizzling. 

36. Cranreuch = hoar-frost. 

37. A T o thy lane = not alone. 
40. Gang aft a-gley = go often wrong. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 



3. Stoure = dust. 

9, Weet = wet, rain. 

15. Glinted = peeped. 

21. Bield= shelter, protection, 

23. His tie = dry, barren. 



SELECTIONS FROM THE AGE OF SCOTT. 

(1800— 1832.) 

I. 

SCOTT'S TALISMAN. 

CHAPTER FIRST. 

They, too, retired 
To the wilderness, but 'twas with arms. 

Paradise Regained. 

The burning sun of Syria had not yet attained its highest point in 
the horizon, when a knight of the Red-cross, 1 who had left his distant 
northern home, and joined the host of the Crusaders in Palestine, was 
pacing slowly along the sandy deserts which lie in the vicinity of the 
Dead Sea, or, as it is called, the Lake Asphaltites, 2 where the waves 
of the Jordan pour themselves into an inland sea, from which there is 
no discharge of waters. 

The warlike pilgrim had toiled among cliffs and precipices during 
the earlier part of the morning ; more lately, issuing from those rocky 
and dangerous denies, he had entered upon that great plain, where the 
accursed cities 3 provoked, in ancient days, the direct and dreadful ven- 
geance of the Omnipotent. 

The toil, the thirst, the dangers of the way, were forgotten, as the 
traveller recalled the fearful catastrophe, which had converted into an 
arid and dismal wilderness the fair and fertile valley of Siddim, 4 once 
well watered, even as the Garden of the Lord, now a parched and 
blighted waste, condemned to eternal sterility. 

Crossing himself, as he viewed the dark mass of rolling waters, in 
color as in quality unlike those of every other lake, the traveller shud- 
dered as he remembered, that beneath these sluggish waves lay the 
once proud cities of the plain, whose grave was dug by the thunder of 
the heavens, or the eruption of subterraneous fire, and whose remains 
were hid, even by that sea which holds no living fish in its bosom, 
bears no skiff on its surface, and, as if its own dreadful bed were the 
only fit receptacle for its sullen waters, sends not, like other lakes, a 
tribute to the ocean. The whole land around, as in the days of Moses, 
was "brimstone and salt; it is not sown, nor beareth, nor any grass 
groweth thereon ; " s the land as well as the lake might be termed dead, 
as producing nothing having resemblance to vegetation, and even the 
very air was entirely devoid of its ordinary winged inhabitants, deterred 
probably by the odor of bitumen and sulphur, which the burning sun 
590 



THE TALISMAN. 591 

exhaled from the waters of the lake, in steaming clouds, frequently 
assuming the appearance of waterspouts. 6 Masses of the slimy and 
sulphurous substance called naphtha, 7 which floated idly on the slug- 
gish and sullen waves, supplied those rolling clouds with new vapors, 
and afforded awful testimony to the truth of the Mosaic history. 

Upon this scene of desolation the sun shone with almost intolerable 
splendor, and all living nature seemed to have hidden itself from the 
rays, excepting the solitary figure which moved through the flitting 
sand at a foot's pace, and appeared the sole breathing thing on the wide 
surface of the plain. The dress of the rider and the accoutrements 
of his horse were peculiarly unfit for the traveller in such a country. 
A coat of linked mail, with long sleeves, plated gauntlets, and a steel 
breastplate, had not been esteemed a sufficient weight of armor; there 
was also his triangular shield suspended round his neck, and his barred 
helmet 8 of steel, over which he had a hood and collar of mail, which 
was drawn around the warrior's shoulders and throat, and filled up the 
vacancy between the hauberk 9 and the head-piece. 10 His lower limbs 
were sheathed, like his body, in flexible mail, securing the legs and 
thighs, while the feet rested in plated shoes, which corresponded with 
the gauntlets. A long, broad, straight-shaped, double-edged falchion, 
with a handle formed like a cross, corresponded with a stout pon- 
iard, on the other side. The knight also bore, secured to his sad- 
dle, with one end resting on his stirrup, the long steel-headed lance, 
his own proper weapon, which, as he rode, projected backward, and 
displayed its little pennoncelle, 11 to dally with the faint breeze, or drop 
in the dead calm. To this cumbrous equipment must be added a sur- 
coat 12 of embroidered cloth, much frayed and worn, which was thus 
far useful, that it excluded the burning rays of the sun from the armor, 
which they would otherwise have rendered intolerable to the wearer. 
The surcoat bore, in several places, the arms I3 of the owner, although 
much defaced. These seemed to be a couchant leopard, with the motto, 
" I sleep — wake me not. 1 ' An outline of the same device might be 
traced on his shield, though many a blow had almost effaced the paint- 
ing. The flat top of his cumbrous cylindrical helmet was unadorned 
with any crest. 14 In retaining their own unwieldy defensive armor, 
the northern Crusaders seemed to set at defiance the nature of the 
climate and country to which they had come to war. 

The accoutrements of the horse were scarcely less massive and un- 
wieldy than those of the rider. The animal had a heavy saddle plated 
with steel, uniting in front with a species of breastplate, and behind 



592 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

with defensive armor made to cover the loins. Then there was a 
steel axe, or hammer, called a mace-of-arms, and which hung to the 
saddlebow ; the reins were secured by chain-work, and the front-stall 
of the bridle was a steel plate, with apertures for the eyes and nostrils, 
having in the midst a short sharp pike, projecting from the forehead 
of the horse like the horn of the fabulous unicorn. 

But habit had made the endurance of this load of panoply I5 a sec- 
ond nature, both to the knight and his gallant charger. Numbers, in- 
deed, of the western warriors who hurried to Palestine, died ere they 
became inured to the burning climate ; but there were others to whom 
that climate became innocent and even friendly, and among this for- 
tunate number was the solitary horseman who now traversed the 
border of the Dead Sea. 

Nature, which cast his limbs in a mould of 'uncommon strength, 
fitted to wear his linked hauberk with as much ease as if the meshes 
had been formed of cobwebs, had endowed him with a constitution as 
strong as his limbs, and which' bade defiance to almost all changes of 
climate, as well as to fatigue and privations of every kind. His dispo- 
sition seemed, in some degree, to partake of the qualities of his bodily 
frame ; and as the one possessed great strength and endurance, united 
with the power of violent exertion, the other, under a calm and un- 
disturbed semblance, had much of the fiery and enthusiastic love of 
glory which constituted the principal attribute of the renowned Nor- 
man line, and had rendered them sovereigns in every corner of Europe, 
where they had drawn their adventurous swords. 

It was not, however, to all the race that fortune proposed such 
tempting rewards ; and those obtained by the solitary knight during 
two years 1 campaign in Palestine had been only temporal fame, and, 
as he was taught to believe, spiritual privileges. Meantime, his slen- 
der stock of money had melted away, the rather that he did not pursue 
any of the ordinary modes by which the followers of the Crusade con- 
descended to recruit their diminished resources, at the expense of the 
people of Palestine ; he exacted no gifts from the wretched natives for 
sparing their possessions when engaged in warfare with the Saracens, 
and he had not availed himself of any opportunity of enriching himself 
by the ransom of prisoners of consequence. The small train which 
had followed him from his native country had been gradually dimin- 
ished, as the means of maintaining them disappeared, and his only re- 
maining squire was at present on a sick-bed, and unable to attend his 
master, who travelled, as we have seen, singly and alone. This was 



THE TALISMAN. 593 

of little consequence to the Crusader, who was accustomed to consider 
his good sword as his safest escort, and devout thoughts as his best 
companion. 

Nature had, however, her demands for refreshment and repose, 
even on the iron frame and patient disposition of the Knight of the 
Sleeping Leopard ; and at noon, when the Dead Sea lay at some dis- 
tance on his right, he joyfully hailed the sight of two or three palm- 
trees, which arose beside the well which was assigned for his mid-day 
station. His good horse, too, which had plodded forward with the 
steady endurance of his master, now lifted his head, expanded his 
nostrils, and quickened his pace, as if he snuffed afar off the living 
waters, which marked the place of repose and refreshment. But la- 
bor and danger were doomed to intervene ere the horse or horseman 
reached the desired spot. 

As the Knight of the Couchant Leopard continued to fix his eyes 
attentively on the yet distant cluster of palm-trees, it seemed to him as 
if some object was moving among them. - The distant form separated 
itself from the trees, which partly hid* its motions, and advanced to- 
ward the knight with a speed which soon showed a mounted horse- 
man, whom his turban, long spear, and green caftan l6 floating in the 
wind, on his nearer approach, showed to be a Saracen cavalier. 17 " In 
the desert," saith an Eastern proverb, " no man meets a friend." The 
Crusader was totally indifferent whether the infidel, who now ap- 
proached on his gallant barb, as if borne on the wings of an eagle, 
came as friend or foe — perhaps, as a vowed champion of the Cross, he 
might rather have preferred the latter. He disengaged his lance from 
his saddle, seized it with the right hand, placed it in rest with its 
point half elevated, gathered up the reins in the left, waked his horse's 
mettle with the spur, and prepared to encounter the stranger with the 
calm self-confidence belonging to the victor in many contests. 

The Saracen came on at the speedy gallop of an Arab horseman, 
managing his steed more by his limbs, and the inflection of his body, 
than by any use of the reins, which hung loose in his left hand ; so that 
he was enabled to wield the light round buckler of the skin of the 
rhinoceros, ornamented with silver loops, which he wore on his arm, 
swinging it as if he meant to oppose its slender circle to the formidable 
thrust of the western lance. His own long spear was not couched or 
levelled like that of his antagonist, but grasped by the middle with his 
right hand, and brandished at arm's length above his head. As the 
cavalier approached his enemy at full career, he seemed to expect that 



594 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

the Knight of the Leopard should put his horse to the gallop to en- 
counter him. But the Christian knight, well acquainted with the cus- 
toms of Eastern warriors, did not mean to exhaust his good horse by 
any unnecessary exertion ; and, on the contrary, made a dead halt, 
confident that if the enemy advanced to the actual shock, his own 
weight, and that of his powerful charger, would give him sufficient ad- 
vantage, without the additional momentum of rapid motion. Equally 
sensible and apprehensive of such a probable result, the Saracen cava- 
lier, when he had approached toward the Christian within twice the 
length of his lance, wheeled his steed to the left with inimitable dex- 
terity, and rode twice round his antagonist, who, turning without quit- 
ting his ground, and presenting his front constantly to his enemy, 
frustrated his attempts to attack him on an unguarded pomt ; so that 
the Saracen, wheeling his horse, was fain to retreat to the distance of 
a hundred yards. A second time, like a hawk attacking a heron, the 
Heathen renewed the 'charge, and a second time was fain to retreat 
without coming to a close struggle. A third time he approached in 
the same manner, when the Christian knight, desirous to terminate 
this elusory warfare, in which he might at length have been worn out 
by the activity of his foeman, suddenly seized the mace which hung at 
his saddlebow, and, with a strong hand and unerring aim, hurled it 
against the head of the Emir, lS for such and not less his enemy ap- 
peared. The Saracen was just aware of the formidable missile in time 
to interpose his light buckler betwixt the mace and his head ; but the 
violence of the blow forced the buckler down on his turban, and 
though that defence also contributed to deaden its violence, the Sara- 
cen was beaten from his horse. Ere the Christian could avail himself 
of this mishap, his nimble foeman sprung from the ground, and calling 
on his horse, which instantly returned to his side, he leaped into his 
seat without touching the stirrup, and regained all the advantage of 
which the Knight of the Leopard hoped to deprive him. But the 
Jatter had in the meanwhile recovered his mace, and the Eastern 
cavalier, who remembered the strength and dexterity with which his 
antagonist had aimed it, seemed to keep cautiously out of reach of that 
weapon, of which he had so lately felt the force, while he showed his 
purpose of waging a distant warfare with missile weapons of his own. 
Planting his long spear in the sand at a distance from the scene of 
combat, he strung, with great address, a short bow which he carried 
at his back, and putting his horse to the gallop, once more described 
two or three circles of a wider extent than formerly, in the course of 



THE TALISMAN. 595 

which he discharged six arrows at the Christian with such unerring 
skill, that the goodness of his harness alone saved him from being 
wounded in as many places. The seventh shaft apparently found a 
less perfect part of the armor, and the Christian dropped heavily from 
his horse. But what was the surprise of the Saracen, when, dismount- 
ing to examine the condition of his prostrate enemy, he found himself 
suddenly within the grasp of the European, who had had recourse to 
this artifice to bring his enemy within his reach ! Even in this deadly 
grapple, the Saracen was saved by his agility and presence of mind. 
He unloosed the sword-belt, in which the Knight of the Leopard had 
fixed his hold, and thus eluding his fatal grasp, mounted his horse, 
which seemed to watch his motions with the intelligence of a human 
being, and again rode off. But in the last encounter the Saracen had 
lost his sword and his quiver of arrows, both of which were attached 
to the girdle which he was obliged to abandon. He had also lost his 
turban in the struggle. These disadvantages seemed to incline the 
Moslem to a truce. He approached the Christian with his right hand 
extended, but no longer in a menacing attitude. 

"There is truce betwixt our nations," he said, in the Lingua 
Franca 19 commonly used for the purpose of communication with the 
Crusaders ; "wherefore should there be war betwixt thee and me ? — 
Let there be peace betwixt us." 

" I am well contented," answered he of the Couchant Leopard; 
" but what security dost thou offer that thou wilt observe the truce?" 

" The word of a follower of the Prophet was never broken," an- 
swered the Emir. " It is thou, brave Nazarene, from whom I should de- 
mand security, did I not know that treason seldom dwells with courage." 

The Crusader felt that the confidence of the Moslem made him 
ashamed of his own doubts. 

" By the cross of my sword," he said, laying his hand on the 
weapon as he spoke, " I will be true companion to thee, Saracen, 
while our fortune wills that we remain in company together." 

"By Mohammed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God of the 
Prophet," replied his late foeman, " there is not treachery in my heart 
toward thee. And now wend we to yonder fountain, for the hour of 
rest is at hand, and the stream had hardly touched my lip when I was 
called to battle by thy approach." 

The Knight of the Couchant Leopard yielded a ready and cour- 
teous assent; and the late foes, without an angry look, or gesture of 
doubt, rode side by side to the little cluster of palm-trees. 



59^ ENGLISH LITERATURE 



NOTES TO THE TALISMAN. 

The extract given is the first chapter of "The Talisman." It well 
illustrates Scott's largeness of style, and his powers of graphic description. 

The events narrated in " The Talisman " are supposed to have occurred 
during the Third Crusade. This was undertaken by Frederick Barbarossa, 
Emperor of Germany, with the support of Phillip II. of France, and Richard 
I., surnamed Cceur de Lion, of England. It accomplished nothing farther 
than the establishment of a truce with Saladin, during which the privilege of 
visiting the holy places of Palestine was accorded to Christians. 

" The Talisman " was Scott's first attempt to treat an Eastern theme. 
In this field he had been preceded by other distinguished English writers. 
Southey in his "Thalaba," Moore in his " Lalla Rookh," and Byron in 
several of his romantic tales, had treated Oriental scenes and characters with 
eminent success. Scott felt a hesitancy, as he tells us, about entering into 
rivalry with his illustrious contemporaries, especially as he had never had an 
opportunity to observe the landscape and people that he undertook to describe. 
The result, however, showed his fears to be groundless, and served only to 
increase his overshadowing reputation. 

1. Knight of the Red-cross — Sir Kenneth of Scotland. 

2. A name derived from the ancient classical writers. In Lat. Lacus 
Asphaltites. 

3. Accursed cities = Sodom and Gomorrah. See Gen. xix. 24, 25. 

4. This name is taken from Gen. xiv. 10. 

5. See Deut. xxix. 23. 

6. These features are exaggerated. Birds abound; and no noisome 
smell nor noxious vapor arises from the lake. 

7. Xaptha contains no sulphur; hence the adjective must be taken as 
referring only to color. 

8. Barred helmet. — See Webster. 

9. Hauberk = a shirt of mail formed of small steel rings interwoven. 
The "coat of linked mail " referred to above. See Webster. 

10. Head-piece = helmet. 

1 1 . Pennoncelle = a small flag or streamer borne at the top of a lance. 
Called also pence/. 



NOTES TO THE TALISMAN. 597 

12. Surcoat = the long and flowing drapery of knights, anterior to the 
introduction of plate armor. 

13. Arms = armorial device or coat of arms. 

14. Crest = the plume of feathers, or other decoration, worn on a 
helmet. 

15. Panoply = complete armor. From Gr. pan, all, and hoplon, im- 
plement of war, harness. 

16. Caftan = a Persian or Turkish vest or garment. 

17. Saracen cavalier = Sheerkohf, the Lion of the Mountain, from 
Kurdistan. 

18. Emir — an Arabian prince. As he informed Sir Kenneth afterwards, 
ten thousand men were ready to take the field at his word. 

19. Lingua Franca = a kind of corrupt Italian, with a considerable 
admixture of French words. 



II. 

BYRON'S PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

I. 

My hair is gray, but not with years, 

Nor grew it white 
In a single night, 
As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffer 1 d chains and courted death ; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proud of persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd ; 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 
There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 

598 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 599 

And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 40 

Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun to rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop'd and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 



III. 

They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone : 
We cculd not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight : 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but joined in heart, 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 
As they of yore were wont to be : 
It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 



6oo ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



I was the eldest of the three, 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did — my best, 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
For him my soul was sorely moved : 
And truly might it be distress'd 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 

(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun ! 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for nought but others' ills, 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhorr'd to view below. 



The ether was as pure of mind, 
But form'd to combat with his kind : 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine : 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 60 1 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fettered feet the worst of ills. 



Lake Leman lies by Chilloms walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave enthrals : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd, 

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 

VII. 

I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined, 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captives 1 tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men 
Like brutes within an iron den ; 
But what were these to us or him? 
These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 



602 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it wrought, 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there : 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant, 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 

VIII. 

But he, the favourite and the flower, 
Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 
His mother's image in fair face, 
The infant love of all his race, 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
He, too, who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural or inspired — 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was wither'd as the stalk away. 
Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 
To see the human soul take wing 
In any shape, in any mood : 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 603 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 180 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmix*d with such — but sure and slow : 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 19° 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise, 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 200 

In this last loss, of all the most ; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less, 

I listen'd, but I could not hear — 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I call'd and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 210 

And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 

/ only stirred in this black spot, 

/ only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 

The last — the sole — the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 



604 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

IX. 

What next befell me then and there 

I know not well — I never knew — 
First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray ; 
It was not night — it was not day ; 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vacancy absorbing space, 
And fixedness — without a place : 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
No check — no change — no good — no crime - 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 



A light broke in upon my brain, — 
It was the carol of a bird ; 

It ceased, and then it came again, 
The sweetest song ear ever heard, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 605 

And mine was thankful till my eyes 

Ran over with the glad surprise, 

And they that moment could not see 

I was the mate of misery ; 

But then by dull degrees came back 

My senses to their wonted track ; 260 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 

Close slowly round me as before, 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 

Creeping as it before had done, 

But through the crevice where it came 

That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand things, 

And seem'd to say them all for me ! 270 

I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate, 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again, 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280 

But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought ! .„e while 
Which made me both to weep and smile ; 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew, 

And then 'twas mortal well I knew, 290 

For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 



606 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 

XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate, 3 00 

My keepers grew compassionate ; 

I know not what had made them so, 

They were inured to sights of woe, 

But so it was : — my broken chain 

With links unfasten'd did remain, 

And it was liberty to stride 

Along my cell from side to side, 

And up and down, and then athwart, 

And tread it over every part ; 

And round the pillars one by one, 310 

Returning where my walk begun, 

Avoiding only, as I trod, 

My brothers 1 graves without a sod ; 

For if I thought with heedless tread, 

My step profaned their lowly bed, 

My breath came gaspingly and thick, 

And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 

XII. 

I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all 320 

Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery ; 
I thought of this, and I was glad, 
For thought of them had made me mad ; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 

Once more upon the mountains high, 330 

The quiet of a loving eye. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 607 



I saw them — and they were the same, 

They were not changed like me in frame } 

I saw their thousand years of snow 

On high — their wide long lake below, 

And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 

I heard the torrents leap and gush 

O'er channelPd rock and broken bush ; 

I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 

And whiter sails go skimming down ; 340 

And then there was a little isle, 

Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 350 

The fish swam by the castle wall, 
And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seenvd to fly, 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again, 

The darkness of my dim abode 360 

Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave, 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
And yet my glance, too much oppress'd, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 

XIV. 

It might be months, or years, or days, 
I kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise, 



6o8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set me free, 37° 

I ask : d not why, and reckM not where, 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I leaned to love despair. 
And thus when they appear'd at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 

1 .• tear me from a second home : 380 

With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race, 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew friends, 

So much a long communion tends 390 

To make us what we are : — even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 



NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 6oq 



NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

( The numbers refer to titles.) 

This poem was written in Switzerland in 18 16, after Byron's final depart- 
ure from his native land. It belongs to the group of poems to which we 
may give the name of romantic tales. There is no resemblance between the 
hero of the poem and the historic prisoner of Chillon, of whom Byron knew 
little or nothing at the time he wrote. " When the foregoing poem was 
composed," he frankly confesses, " I was not sufficiently aware of the history 
of Bonnivard, or I should have endeavored to dignify the subject by an 
attempt to celebrate his courage and his virtues." The Bonnivard of history, 
on whom the poet afterwards wrote a sonnet, was imprisoned for six years — 
from 1530 to 1536 — for political reasons. He was a man of extensive 
knowledge, upright aims, and heroic will. No brothers shared his imprison- 
ment. After his liberation he lived in honor in Geneva, for the liberties of 
which he had suffered. A sight of the dungeon, without an extended 
acquaintance with the history of the illustrious prisoner of Chillon, was 
sufficient material for the poet's powerful imagination to work upon. The 
story of the prisoner of Chillon, as here given, is almost pure fiction. 

3. In a single night, etc. — Byron has this note: " Ludovico Sforza, 
and others. The same is asserted of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis 
XVI., though not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have the same 
effect : to such, and not to fear, this change in hers was to be attributed." 

6. Rusted = made weak and sluggish. 

10. Ba?in , d = forbidden, interdicted. From A. S. bannan, to proclaim. 
The word appears in its original sense in the phrase the banns of marriage. 

11. This should be it; or else line 12 should be omitted. The con- 
struction here may be taken as an illustration of Byron's occasional careless- 
ness of style. 

13. That father, etc. — He is represented as a Protestant. 

22. Seal'd= confirmed, ratified. O. Fr. see/, Lat. sigillum, a seal. 

28. Chilian = a celebrated castle and fortress in Switzerland. It is 
situated at the east end of Lake Geneva, on an isolated rock, almost entirely 
surrounded by deep water, and connected with the shore by a wooden bridge. 
The castle dates from the year 1238. 

30. Dim with a dull, etc. — The poet has here taken some liberties with 



610 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

the facts. "The dungeon of Bonnivard," says Murray, in his "Handbook 
of Switzerland," "is airy and spacious, consisting of two aisles, almost like 
the crypt of a church. It is lighted by several windows, through which the 
sun's light passes by reflection from the surface of the lake up to the roof, 
transmitting partly also the blue color of the waters." 

41. This new day. — The prisoner, as we learn from stanza 14, had been 
released after years of imprisonment; and the light of the open sky seemed 
new to him. 

45. Score = account or reckoning. From. A. S. sceran, to cut. Ac- 
counts were once kept by cutting notches on a stick. 

55. Fettered in hand. — Fetters were originally shackles for the feet, as 
manacles were shackles for the hands. 

57. Pure elements = air and light. 

63. Our voices, etc. — Privations and suffering sometimes materially 
change the voice. On one occasion, when two Arctic exploring parties were 
reunited after a protracted separation, " the doctor," says Franklin, " par- 
ticularly remarked the sepulchral tone of .our voices, which he requested us 
to make more cheerful if possible, not aware that his own partook of the same 
key." 

71. Ought = was* under obligation. Here a past tense, though com- 
monly used in the present. 

95. Had stood = would have stood. 

97. To pine depends on was formed \n line 93. 

101. I forced it on. — He speaks of his spirit as of a weary, fainting 
soldier. 

102. Those relics = his two brothers. Literally, that which is left. Lat. 
relinquere, to leave. 

107. Lake Leman = Lake of Geneva. 

108. A thousand feet, etc. — Byron says in a note: " Below the castle, 
washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to the depth of eight hundred 
feet. . . . The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a great distance. 
The walls are white." 

112. Wave is the subject of enthralls. See line 28. 

122. Rock hath rocked. — We cannot consider this' word-play as felicitous 
The noun rock and the verb rock are of different origin. 

142. Had his free, etc. = if his free breathing had been denied. 

148. Gnash = break by violent bitings. 

152. Boon = a favor, deed of grace. From Fr. bon, Lat. bonus, good. 

155. Compare the following lines in Coleridge's " Christabel " : — 

" And to be wroth with one we love 
Doth work like madness in the brain." 



NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 611 

172. Yet= hitherto, thus far. 

189. And grieved for those, etc. — "There is much delicacy," says 
Hales, " in this plural. By such a fanciful multiplying of the survivors, the 
elder brother prevents self-intrusion; himself and his loneliness are, as it 
were, kept out of sight and forgotten. There is a not unlike sensitiveness in 
the Scotch phrase, 'them that's awa',' of some single lost one. The grief is 
softened by vagueness." 

230. Selfish death — self-inflicted death. " 

231. What next befell, etc. — The following description of the prisoner's 
deadly stupor is graphic and powerful. It has been much admired. 

237. Wist= knew; past tense of A. S. witan, to know. 

252. It zvas the carol, etc. — The sympathies of his nature were awakened 
again. In a similar manner the spell of the Ancient Mariner was broken by 
the sight of iris-hued serpents disporting in the water: — 

" A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
And I blessed them unaware." 

In Goethe's great work, Faust is recalled from despair by a chime of bells 
and a choral song. Dashing the cup of poison from his lips, he exclaims : — 

" Sound on, ye hymns of Heaven, so sweet and mild 1 
My tears gush forth : the earth takes back her child." 

327. Had made = would have made. 

335. The bine Rhone. — This statement is not strictly correct. At its 
entrance into the lake, the Rhone is of the common color of glacier streams; 
it does not become blue till it leaves the lake at Geneva. 

339. White-walled, distant town = Villeneuve. 

341. little isle. — In a note to this passage Byron says: " Between the 
entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, not far from Chi] Ion, is a very small 
island; the only one I could perceive, in my voyage round and over the lake, 
within its circumference. It contains a few trees (I think not above three), 
and from its singleness and diminutive size has a peculiar effect upon the 
view." 



III. 

WORDSWORTH'S LINES. 

COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE 
BANKS OF THE WYE, DURING A TOUR. 

July 13, 1798. 

Five years have past ; five summers, with the length 

Of five long winters ! and again I hear 

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 

With a sweet inland murmur. Once again 

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 

That on a wild secluded scene impress 

Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connec 

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 

The day is come when I again repose 

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view i< 

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 

Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 

The wild green landscape. Once again I see 

These hedgerows — hardly hedgerows — little lines 

Of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farms, 

Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees, 

With some uncertain notice, as might seem a< 

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods. 

Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire 

The hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms, 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye ; 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
And passing even into my purer mind, y 

With tranquil restoration : feelings too 
612 



TINTERN ABBEY. 613 

Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, 

As have no slight or trivial influence 

On that best portion of a good man's life — 

His little, nameless, unremembered acts 

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 

To them I may have owed another gift, 

Of aspect more sublime: that blessed mood, 

In which the burden of the mystery, 

In which the heavy and the weary weight 4° 

Of all this unintelligible world, 

Is lightened ; that serene and blessed mood 

In which the affections gently lead us on, 

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 

And even the motion of our human blood 

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 

In body, and become a living soul ; 

While with an eye made quiet by the power 

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 

We see into the life of things. 

If this 5° 

Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft, 
In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight, when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 

sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer thro' the woods, 
How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 60 

And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
The picture of the mind revives again ; 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope, 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 

1 came among these hills ; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 



614 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Of the deep rivers and the lonely streams, 

Wherever nature led : more like a man 

Flying from something that he dreads than one 

Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then 

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 

And their glad animal movements all gone by) 

To me was all in all. I cannot paint 

What then I was. The sounding cataract 

Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock, 

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 

Their colors and their forms, were then to me 

An appetite, a feeling and a love, 

That had no need of a remoter charm, 

By thought supplied, nor any interest 

Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past, 

And all its aching joys are now no more, 

And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 

Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts 

Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, 

Abundant recompense. For I have learned 

To look on Nature, not as in the hour 

Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 

The still, sad music of humanity, 

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the joy 

Of elevated thoughts : a sense sublime 

Of something far more deeply interfused, 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 

And the round ocean and the living air 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 

A motion and a spirit, that impels 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 

A lover of the meadows and the woods 

And mountains, and of all that we behold 

From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 

Of eye and ear, both what they half create 

And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 

In Nature and the language of the sense 



TINTERN ABBEY. 615 

The anchor of my purest thoughts ; the nurse, no 

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being. 

Nor, perchance, 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend, 
My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 12c 

May I behold in thee what I was once, 
My dear, dear sister ! and this prayer I make, 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege, 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 13c 

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
And let the misty mountain winds be free 
To blow against thee ; and in after-years, 
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 14° 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, 
If solitude or fear or pain or grief 
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance 
If I should be where I no more can hear 



616 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 

Of past existence, wilt thou then forget 

That on the banks of this delightful stream 

We stood together; and that I, so long 

A worshipper of Nature, hither came 

Unwearied in that service : rather say 

With warmer love, oh ! with far deeper zeal 

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 

That after many wanderings, many years 

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake. 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 617 



ODE. 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY 
CHILDHOOD. 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

The rainbow comes and goes, 

And lovely is the rose ; 

The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heaven is bare ; 

Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong : 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 



618 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou child of joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
Shepherd boy ! 

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
My heart is at your festival, 
My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 

Oh evil day ! if 1 were sullen 

While earth herself is adorning, 
This sweet May morning, 

And the children are culling 
On every side, 

In a thousand valleys far and wide, 

Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm ; 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 

— But there's a tree, of many, one, 
A single field which I have looked upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is gone : 

The pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 

The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 

Hath had Elsewhere its setting, 

And cometh from afar : 
Not in entire forgetfulness, 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home. 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
Upon the growing boy, 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 5l 9 

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows ; 7° 

He sees it in his joy. 
The youth who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is nature's priest, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
And, even with something of a mothers mind, 80 

And no unworthy aim, 
The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 

Forget the glories he hath known, 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 
Behold the child among his new-born blisses, 
A six-years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
See where, 'mid work of his own hand, he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 

With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 9° 

See at his feet some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly learned art ; 
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral ; 

And this hath now his heart, 
And unto this he frames his song ; 

Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife. 

But it will not be long 100 

Ere this be thrown aside, 
And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part, 
Filling from time to time his " humorous stage " 
With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
That life brings with her in her equipage, 
As if his whole vocation 
Were endless imitation. 



6ro ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity ; no 

Thou best philosopher, who yet doth keep 
Thy heritage ; thou eye among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty prophet, seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest. 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thine Immortality 

Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 120 

A presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

O joy ! that in our embers 130 

Is something that doth live, 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction ; not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : 

Not for these I raise 140 

The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings, 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts before which # our mortal nature 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 621 

Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised ; 
But for those first affections, 

Those shadowy recollections 15a 

Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence : truths that wake 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness nor mad endeavor, 

Nor man, nor boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 160 

Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather, 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea, 
Which brought us hither ; 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 

And let the young lambs bound 170 

As to the tabor's sound ! 
We in thought will join your throng, 

Ye that pipe and ye that play, . 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now for ever taken from my sight — 
Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 
We will grieve not, rather find iSc 

Strength in what remains behind ; 
In the primal sympathy, 
Which having been must ever be ; 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering ; 
In the faith that looks through death, 



622 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

And, O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the brooks which down their channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears ; 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



NOTES TO T INTERN ABBEY. 623 



NOTES TO TINTERN ABBEY. 

( TJie numbers refer to lines.) 

TlNTERN Abbey is a famous ecclesiastical ruin on the right bank of the 
Wye in Monmouthshire. It was founded in 1131. Though the Abbey is 
mentioned in the title, it is not referred to at all in the poem itself. 

The poem was composed in a single day. In the words of Myers, " The 
lines written above Tintern Abbey have become, as it were, the locus 
classicus, or consecrated formulary of the Wordsworthian faith. They say in 
brief what it is the work of the poet's biographer to say in detail." 

I. Five summers, etc. — The poet had visited the same spot five years 
before, during the restless period that followed his graduation at Cambridge. 
4. Once again, etc. — As we have already learned, Wordsworth's love 
of nature was intense. Having once seen this beautiful spot, he could not 
forget it. In the following lines of this paragraph, he dwells with loving 
tenderness on the various objects of beauty — the lofty cliffs, the secluded 
landscape, the cottages, orchards, hedgerows, — 

" And wreaths of smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees." 

27. I have owed to them, etc. — Wordsworth cared but little for books; 
nature was his great teacher. Nature filled him with feelings of deep tran- 
quillity and delight, and taught him something of the significance of this " un- 
intelligible world." 

65. There is life and food, etc. — The beautiful landscape would not 
fade from his memory. Both its forms and its teachings would continue to 
abide with him as a blessing. 

67. From what I was, etc. — On his first visit, he had not yet learned 
the meaning of nature. Its forms and scenes filled him with a wild delight, 
as is beautifully described in the following lines, but they brought him no 
lesson of wisdom. 

89. For I have learned, etc, — Here we find the soul of Wordsworth's 
poetry. Nature and humanity are in fundamental harmony. An invisible 
presence pervades all things, both animate and inanimate. His highest aim 
is to live in sympathy with that divine presence, and to make it — 



624 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" The nurse, 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being." 

115. For thou art, etc. — His sister Dorothy. Her sympathy with nature 
was scarcely less than that of the poet himself. See sketch of Wordsworth. 

126. For she can so inform, etc. — The poet realized in his own character 
what he here describes. Calmness of soul, loftiness of thought, and — 

" Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings," — 

these are traits that make Wordsworth's life so beautiful. 

138. And i?i after-years, etc. — The poet expects that his sister will pass 
through the same experience as himself; that her wild ecstasies in the pres- 
ence of nature will be sobered by reflection and intelligent sympathy with the 
soul of things. 



NOTES TO INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 

{The numbers refer to tines.) 

In addition to what has been said in the sketch of Wordsworth, the fol- 
lowing account given by him of the poem will form a valuable introduction. 
He says: " This was composed during my residence at Town-End, Grasmere. 
Two year at least passed between the writing of the first four stanzas and 
the remaining part. To the attentive and competent reader the whole suffi- 
ciently explains itself, but there may be no harm in adverting here to partic- 
ular feelings or experiences of my own mind on which the structure of the 
poem partly rests. Nothing was more difficult for me in childhood than to 
admit the notion of death as a state applicable to my own being. I have 
elsewhere said, — 

" A simple child 

That lightly draws its breath 

And feels its life in every limb, 

What should it know of death ? " 

But it was not so much from the source of animal vivacity that my diffi- 
culty came, as from a sense of the indomitableness of the spirit within me. I 
used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost persuade 
myself that, whatever might become of others, I should be translated in 
something of the same way to heaven. With a feeling congenial to this, I 
was often unable to think of external things as having external existence, and 



NOTES TO INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 625 

I communed with all that I saw as something not apart from, but inherent in, 
my own immaterial nature. Many times, while going to school, have I grasped 
at a wall or tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality. 
At that time I was afraid of mere processes. In later periods of life I have 
deplored, as we have all reason to do, a subjugation of an opposite character, 
and have rejoiced over the remembrances, as is expressed in the lines " Obsti- 
nate Questionings," etc. To that dream-like vividness and splendor which 
invests objects of sight in childhood, every one, I believe, if he would look 
back, could bear testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here; but having 
in the poem regarded this as a presumptive evidence of a prior state of ex- 
istence, I think it right to protest against the conclusion which has given pain 
to some good and pious persons that I meant to inculcate such a belief. It is 
far too shadowy a notion to be recommended to faith as more than an element 
in our instincts of immortality. But let us bear in mind that though the idea 
is not advanced in Revelation, there is nothing there to contradict it, and the 
fall of man presents an analogy in its favor. Accordingly, a pre-existent 
state has entered into the creed of many nations, and among all persons 
acquainted with classic literature is known as an ingredient in Platonic 
philosophy. Archimedes said that he could move the world if he had a point 
whereon to rest his machine. Who has not felt the same aspirations as re- 
gards his own mind? Having to wield some of its elements when I was 
impelled to write this poem on the immortality of the soul, I took hold of 
the notion of pre-existence as having sufficient foundation in humanity for 
authorizing me to make for my purpose the best use of it I could as a poet." 

6. Of yore = the childhood days of the poet. The usual sense is of old 
time. 

9. The things, etc. — Compare with this Shelley's "A Lament : " — 

" O World ! O life ! time ! 

On whose last steps I climb, 
Trembling at that where I had stood before, — 
When will return the glory of your prime ? 

No more — oh never more ! 

Out of the day and night 

A joy has taken flight ; 
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, 
Move my faint heart with grief, — but with delight 

No more — oh never more." 

21. Tabor = a small drum. 

25. The cataracts, etc. — The poet had in mind the numerous cascades 
of the beautiful Lake District. 



62 6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

28. Fields of sleep. — The time is morning, and the quiet of night has 
not yet been broken by the noises of the day. 

37. Ye blessed creatures = the objects of nature, animate and inanimate, 
mentioned in the preceding stanza. 

39. Jubilee = joyfulness, exultation. From the Hebrew yobel> a blast 
of a trumpet, a shout of joy, through the Lat. and Fr. 

41. Coronal = wreath or garland as worn at Roman and Grecian 
banquets. 

55. Pansy = a species of violet. From Fr. pense'e, a thought; " thus, 
it is the flower of thought or remembrance." 

57. Visionary = vision-like. 

59. Our birth, etc. — In this stanza the poet explains the source of that 
glory which invests objects in childhood. He adopts for the time the 
Platonic doctrine of the pre-existence of the soul, and makes the glory of 
nature as seen in childhood a reflection of the splendor of our previous state 
of existence. As we grow older objects are apt io become commonplace. 
Compare the lines of Hood : — 

" I remember, I remember, 

The fir-trees dark and high ; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky. 
It was a childish ignorance ; 

But now it's little joy- 
To know I'm farther off from heaven 

Than when I was a boy." 

An interval of more than two years came between the writing of the 
fourth and the fifth stanza. The transition seems a little abrupt. 

73. Nature" 1 s priest =one living in close fellowship with nature, discern- 
ing its beauty and understanding its secrets. 

82. Homely nurse = this world; called homely in comparison with. 
" that imperial palace," whence her foster-child has come. 

Compare the following lines from Pope's " Essay on Man: " — 

" Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law, 
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw ; 
Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, 
A little louder, but as empty quite : 
Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, 
And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age : 
Pleased with this bauble still, as that before, 
Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er." 



NOTES TO INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 627 

86. Behold the child, etc. — Wordsworth had in mind a particular child, 
Hartley Coleridge, but the language is applicable to childhood in general. 

Sy. Pigmy = a very diminutive person. From Gr. pugme, the distance 
from the elbow to the knuckles, through the Lat. and Fr. Originally applied 
to a fabulous race of dwarfs. 

89. Fretted = vexed, annoyed. 

103. Cons = to study over, examine into. From A. S., cunnian, to test, 
examine. 

104. Humorous stage = the stage on which the whims, follies, and 
caprices of mankind are exhibited. 

105. Persons = dramatis per sonce, characters. 

ill. Best philosopher, because of his spontaneous love, joy, trust. See 
sketch of Wordsworth. 

128. Custom =the ordinary usage and requirements of practical life. 

144. Fallings from us, vanishings, etc. — Refer to the shadowy remem- 
brances of a previous life — remembrances that startle us at times with a 
consciousness of our immortality, and lead our thoughts to higher things 
than the material world about us. See Wordsworth's note above. 



EX GUSH LITERATURE. 



DE QUINCEY'S APPARITION OF THE BROCKEN. 

Ascend with me on this dazzling Whitsunday 1 the Brocken 2 of 
North Germany. The dawn opened in cloudless beauty; it is a 
dawn of bridal June ; but, as the hours advanced, her youngest 
sister April, that sometimes cares little for racing across both 
frontiers of May, frets the bridal lady's sunny temper with sallies of 
wheeling and careering showers, flying and pursuing, opening and 
closing, hiding and restoring. On such a morning, and reaching the 
summits of the forest mountain about sunrise, we shall have one 
chance the more for seeing the famous Spectre of the Brocken. 3 
Who and what is he? He is a solitary apparition, in the sense of 
loving solitude ; else he is not always solitary in his personal 
manifestations, but on proper occasions, has been known to unmask 
a strength quite sufficient to alarm those who had been insulting 
him. 

Now, in order to test the nature of this mysterious apparition, 
we will try two or three experiments upon him. What we fear, 
and with some reason, is, that as he lived so many ages with foul 
Pagan sorcerers, and witnessed so many centuries of dark idola- 
tries, his heart may have been corrupted ; and that even now his 
faith may be wavering or impure. We will try. 

Make the sign of the cross, and observe whether he repeats it 
(as on Whitsunday 4 he surely ought to do). Look! he does repeat 
it; but the driving 4 showers perplex the images, and that, perhaps, 
it is which gives him the air of one who acts reluctantly or eva- 
sively. Now again, the sun shines more brightly, and the showers 
have swept off like squadrons of cavalry to the rear. We will try 
him again. 

Pluck an anemone, one of these many anemones which once was 
called the sorcerer's flower, 5 and bore a part, perhaps, in this 
horrid ritual of fear ; carry it to that stone which mimics the out- 
line of a heathen altar, and once was called the sorcerer's altar, 5 



SELECTIONS FROM DE QUINCEY. 629 

then bending your knee, and raising your right hand to God, say, — 
" Father, which art in heaven, this lovely anemone, that once glori- 
fied the worship of fear, has travelled back into thy fold ; this 
altar, which once reeked with bloody rites to Cortho, has long 
been rebaptized into thy holy service. The darkness is gone ; the 
cruelty is g'one which the darkness bred ; the moans have 
passed away which the victims uttered ; the cloud has vanished 
which once sate continually upon their graves, cloud of protestation 
that ascended forever to thy throne from the tears of the defence- 
less, and the anger of the just. And lo ! I thy servant, with this 
dark phantom, whom for one hour on this thy festival of Pente- 
cost I make my servant, render thee united worship in this thy 
recovered temple." 

Look now ! the apparition plucks an anemone, and places it on an 
altar; he also bends his knees, he also raises his right hand to 
God. Dumb he is ; but sometimes the dumb serve God accept- 
ably. Yet still it occurs to you, that perhaps on this high 
festival of the Christian Church he may he overruled by super- 
natural influence into confession of his homage, having so often 
been made to bow and bend his knee at murderous rites. In 
a service of religion he may be timid. Let us try him, therefore, 
with an earthly passion, where he will have no bias either from 
favor or from fear. 

If, then, once in childhood you suffered an affliction that was 
ineffable, 6 — if once, when powerless to face such an enemy, you 
were summoned to fight with the tiger that couches within the 
separations of the grave, — in that case, after the example of 
Judaea (on the Roman coins), — sitting under her palm-tree to 
weep, but sitting with her head veiled, — do you also veil your head. 
Many years are passed away since then; and you were a little 
ignorant thing at that time, hardly above six years old ; or perhaps 
(if you durst tell all the truth), not quite so much. But your heart 
was deeper than the Danube ; and, as was your love, so was your 
grief. Many years are gone since that darkness settled on your 
head; many summers, many winters; yet still its shadows wheel 
round you at intervals, like these April showers upon this glory 
of bridal June. Therefore now, on this dovelike morning of Pen- 
tecost, do you veil your head like Judaea in memory of that tran- 
scendant woe, and in testimony that, indeed, it surpassed all utter- 
ance of words. Immediately you see that the apparition of the 



630 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Brocken veils his head, after the model of Judaea weeping under 
her palm-tree, as if he also had a human heart, and that he also, in 
childhood, having suffered an affliction which was ineffable, wished 
by these mute symbols to breathe a sigh towards heaven in mem- 
ory of that affliction, and by way of record, though many a year 
after, that it was indeed unutterable by words. 

This trial is decisive. You are now satisfied that the apparition 
is but a reflex of yourself ; and, in uttering your secret feelings to 
him, you make this phantom the dark symbolic mirror for re- 
flection to the daylight what else must be hidden forever. 

Such a relation does the Dark Interpreter, whom immediately the 
reader will learn to know as an intruder into my dreams, bear to 
my own mind. He is originally a mere reflex of my inner nature. 
But as the apparition of the Brocken sometimes is disturbed by 
storms or by driving showers, so as to dissemble his real origin, 
in like manner the Interpreter sometimes swerves out of my orbit, 
and mixes a little with alien natures. I do not always know him 
in these cases as my own parhelion ! " What he says, generally, is 
but that which / have said in daylight, and in meditation deep 
enough to sculpture itself on my heart. But sometimes, as his face 
alters, his words alter ; and they do not always seem such as I 
have used, or could use. No man can account for all things that 
occur in dreams. Generally, I believe this, — that he is a faithful 
representative of myself; but he also is at times subject to the 
action of the good Phantasus* who rules in dreams. 

Hailstone choruses 9 besides, and storms, enter my dreams. Hail- 
stones and fire that run along the ground, sleet and blinding hurri- 
canes, revelations of glory insufferable pursued by volleying dark- 
ness, — 'these are powers able to disturb any features that originally 
were but shadow, and so send drifting the anchors of any vessel 
that rides upon deeps so treacherous as those of dreams. Under- 
stand, however, the Interpreter to bear generally the office of a 
tragic chorus at Athens. The Greek chorus is perhaps not quite 
understood by critics, any more than the Dark Interpreter by myself. 
But the leading function of both must be supposed this — not to 
tell you anything absolutely new, — that was done by the actors in 
the drama ; but to recall you to your own lurking thoughts, — hid- 
den for the moment or imperfectly developed, — and to place before 
you, in immediate connection with groups vanishing too quickly 
for any effort of meditation on your own part, such commen- 



SELECTIONS FROM DE QUINCEY. 631 

taries, prophetic or looking back, pointing the moral or decipher- 
ing the mystery, justifying Providence, or mitigating the fierce- 
ness of anguish, as would or might have occurred to your own 
meditative heart, had only time been allowed for its motions. 

The Interpreter is anchored and stationary in my dreams ; but 
great storms and driving mists cause him to fluctuate uncertainly, 
or even to retire altogether, like his gloomy counterpart, the shy 
phantom of the Brocken, — and to assume new features or strange 
features, as in dreams always there is a power not contented with 
sitting inside my dreams, but at times outside, and in open day- 
light 



632 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



SAVANNAH-LA-M'AR. 

God smote Savannah-la-mar, 10 and in one night, by earthquake, 
removed her, with all her towers standing and population sleeping, 
from the steadfast foundations of the shore to the coral floors of 
ocean. And God said, — " Pompeii u did I bury and conceal from 
men through seventeen centuries : this city I will bury, but not 
conceal. She shall be a monument to men of my mysterious anger, 
set in azure light through generations to come ; for I will en- 
shrine her in a crystal dome of my tropic seas." This city, there- 
fore, like a mighty galleon 12 with all her apparel mounted, 
streamers flying, and tackling perfect, seems floating along the noise- 
less depths of ocean ; and oftentimes in glassy calms, through the 
translucid atmosphere of water that now stretches like an air-woven 
awning above the silent encampment, mariners from every clime 
look down into her courts and terraces, count her gates, and 
number the spires of her churches. She is one ample cemetery 
•and has been for many a year ; but in the mighty calms that brood 
for weeks over tropic latitudes she fascinates the eye with a Fata- 
Morgana 13 revelation, as of human life still subsisting in sub- 
marine asylums sacred from the storms that torment our upper air. 

Thither, lurid by the loveliness of cerulean depths, by the peace 
of human dwellings privileged from molestation, by the gleam of 
marble altars sleeping in everlasting sanctity, oftentimes in dreams 
did I and the Dark Interpreter cleave the watery veil that divided 
us from her streets. We looked into the belfries, where the pen- 
dulous bells were waiting in vain for the summons which should 
awaken their marriage peals ; together we touched the mighty 
organ-keys, that sang no jubilates 14 for the ear of Heaven, that 
sang no requiems for the ear of human sorrow ; together we 
searched the silent nurseries, where the children were all asleep, 
and had been asleep through five generations. " They are waiting 
for the heavenly dawn," whispered the Interpreter to himself: 
" and, when that comes, the bells and the organs will utter a jubi- 
late repeated by the echoes of Paradise." Then, turning to me, 



SELECTIONS FROM DE QUINCEY. 633 

he said, — " This is sad, this is piteous ; but less would not have 
sufficed for the purpose of God. Look here. Put into a Roman 
clepsydra 15 one hundred drops of water ; let these run out as the 
sands in an hour-glass ; every drop measuring the hundredth part 
of a second, so that each shall represent but the three hundred- 
and-sixty-thousandth part of an hour. Now, count the drops as 
they race along; and when the fiftieth of a hundred is passing, 
behold ! forty-nine are not, because already they have perished ; 
and fifty are not, because they are yet to come. You see therefore, 
how narrow, how incalculably narrow, is the true and actual present. 
Of that time which we call the present, hardly a hundredth part but 
belongs either to a past which has fled or to a future which is still 
on the wing. It has perished, or it is not born. It was, or it is not. 
Yet even this approximation to the truth is infinitely false. For 
again subdivide that solitary drop, which only was found to repre- 
sent the present, into a lower series of similar fractions, and the 
actual present which you arrest measures now but the thirty-sixth- 
millionth of an hour ; and so by infinite declensions the true and 
very present, in which only we live and enjoy, will vanish into a 
mote of a mote, distinguishable only by a heavenly vision. There- 
fore the present, which only man possesses, offers less capacity for 
his footing than the slenderest film that ever spider twisted from 
her womb. Therefore, also, even this incalculable shadow from 
the narrowest pencil of moonlight is more transitory than geometry 
can measure, or thought of angel can overtake. The time which 
is contracts into a mathematic point ;' and even that point perishes 
a thousand times before we can utter its birth. All is finite in the 
present; and even that finite is infinite in its velocity of flight to- 
wards death. But in God there is nothing finite ; but in God there 
is nothing transitory ; but in God there can be nothing that tends 
to death. Therefore, it follows, that for God there can be no 
present. The future is the present of God, and to the future it is 
that he sacrifices the human present. Therefore it is that he 
works by earthquake. Therefore it is that he works by grief. O, 
deep is the ploughing of earthquake ! O, deep " — [and his voice 
swelled like a sanctns rising from the choir of a cathedral] — " O, 
deep is the ploughing of grief! But oftentimes less would not 
suffice for the agriculture of God. Upon a night of earthquake he 
builds a thousand years of pleasant habitations for man. Upon 
the sorrow of an infant he raises oftentimes from human intellects 



634 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

glorious vintages that could not else have been. Less than these 
fierce ploughshares would not have stirred the stubborn soil. The 
one is needed for earth, our planet, — for earth itself as the dwell- 
ing-place of man; but the other is needed yet oftener for God's 
mightiest instrument, — yes" [and he looked solemnly at myself], 
" is needed for the mysterious children of the earth ! " 



NOTES TO DE QUINCEY. 635 



NOTES TO DE QUINCEY, 

This selection is taken from the " Suspiria de Profundi s," which 
forms a sequel to the " Confessions of an Opium-Eater." It is a 
good example of De Quincey's varied, rich, and musical style. To 
be fully appreciated, it should be read aloud. For a general in- 
troduction, see the sketch of Part I. 

1. What is the etymology and significance of Whitsunday? See 
Standard Dictionary. 

2. The Brocken is the highest summit of the Harz mountains. 
Its height is about 3,745 feet, crowned at present by an observatory 
and hotel. It is usually covered with snow from November till 
June. 

3. " This very striking phenomenon," De Quincey says in a note, 
" has been continually described by writers, both German and 
English, for the last fifty years. . . . The spectre takes the 
shape of a human figure, or, if the visitors are more than one, then 
the spectres multiply ; they arrange themselves on the blue ground 
of the sky, or the dark ground of any clouds that may be in the 
right quarter, or perhaps they are strongly relieved against a curtain 
of rock, at a distance of some miles, and always exhibiting gigantic 
proportions. At first, from the distance and the colossal size, every 
spectator supposes the appearance to be quite independent of him- 

' self. But very soon he is surprised to observe his own actions and 
gestures mimicked ; and wakens to the conviction that the phan- 
tom is but a dilated reflection of himself. This Titan amongst the 
apparitions of earth is exceedingly capricious, vanishing abruptly 
for reasons best known to himself, and more coy in coming 
forward than the Lady Echo of Ovid." 

4. " It is singular," De Quincey again says in a note, " and per- 
haps owing to the temperature and weather likely to prevail in that 
early part of summer, that more appearances of the spectre have 
been witnessed on Whitsunday than on any other day." 

5. "The sorcerer's flower" and "the sorcerer's altar" "are 
names," as De Quincey tells us, " still clinging to the anemone of 



636 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

the Brocken, and to an altar-shaped fragment of granite near one 
of the summits; and it is not doubted that they both connect them- 
selves, through links of ancient tradition, with the gloomy realities 
of Paganism, when the whole Harz and the Brocken formed for a 
very long time the last asylum to a ferocious but perishing idolatry." 

6. A reference to his bereavement in childhood. See the pre- 
ceding sketch, and also the first chapter of "Suspiria de Profundis." 

7. Parhelion = a. mock sun, or reflected image of the sun in the 
sky. Usually two parhelia appear at the same time in the form 
of attendants upon one sun — a very striking celestial phenomenon, 
occasioned, it is said, by the presence of ice-crystals in the air. 

8. Phantasm = a deification of the power of fancy — a divinity of 
De Quincey's own fabrication. 

9. "Hailstone choruses" as De Quincey informs us, is a phrase 
borrowed from Handel's oratorio of "Israel in Egypt," which con- 
tains a chorus popularly known by that name. The words are: 
"And he gave them hailstones for rain; fire, mingled with hail, ran 
along upon the ground." 

10. An imaginary city and catastrophe. 

n. Pompeii was an ancient city of Italy, lying at the southeast 
base of Vesuvius. In the year 79 A. D. it was covered with a 
shower of ashes and pumice from an eruption of the volcano. 
During the past century it was uncovered — a work that has 
greatly increased our knowledge of ancient Roman life. 

12. Galleon = a large Spanish ship of the sixteenth and seven- 
teenth centuries. 

13. Fata Morgana = an aerial phenomenon, observed in the Strait 
of Messina and at other points in Italy and Sicily, in which objects 
are reflected on the surface of the sea or on a kind of aerial screen. 
An object is often represented by two images, one of which is in- 
verted. So called because the phenomenon was supposed to be 
the work of the fairy Morgana. 

14. Jubilate = a hymn of rejoicing or gladness. Thus named 
from the 100th Psalm, which in the Latin version begins with that 
word. Latin jubilare, to rejoice. 

15. Clepsydra = a water-clock — an instrument anciently used for 
measuring time by the flow of water. See Standard Dictionary for 
an illustration. 



TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS. 63; 



SELECTIONS FROM THE VICTORIAN AGE. 

( 1 832-1906.) 

I. 

MACAULAY'S TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS. 

When Parliament met in the following winter, the Commons 
proceeded to elect a committee for managing the impeachment. 
Burke stood at the head ; and with him were associated most of the 
leading members of the Opposition. But when the name of 
Francis * was read a fierce contention arose. It was said that Francis 
and Hastings were notoriously on bad terms, that they had been 
at feud during many years, that on one accasion their mutual aver- 
sion had impelled them to seek each other's lives, and that it 
would be improper and indelicate to select a private enemy to be 
a public accuser. It was urged on the other side with great force, 
particularly by Mr. Windham, 2 that impartiality, though the first 
duty of a judge, had never been reckoned among the qualities of an 
advocate; that in the ordinary administration of criminal justice 
among the English, the aggrieved party, the very last person who 
ought to be admitted into the jury-box, is the prosecutor; that what 
was wanted in a manager was, not that he should be free from 
bias, but that he should be able, well-informed, energetic, and active. 
The ability and information of. Francis was admitted; and the very 
animosity with which he was reproached, whether a virtue or a vice, 
was at least a pledge for his energy and activity. It seems difficult 
to refute these arguments. But the inveterate hatred borne by 
Francis to Hastings had excited general disgust. The House de- 
cided that Francis should not be a manager. Pitt voted with the 
majority, Dundas 3 with the minority. 

In the meantime, the preparations for the trial had proceeded 
rapidly; and on the thirteenth of February, 1788, the sittings of the 
Court commenced. There have been spectacles more dazzling to 
the eye, more gorgeous with jewellery and cloth of gold, more 



638 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

attractive to grown-np children, than that which was then exhibited 
at Westminster; but, perhaps, there never was a spectacle so well 
calculated to strike a highly cultivated, a reflecting, an imaginative 
mind. All the various kinds of interest which belong to the near 
and to the distant, to the present and to the past, were collected on 
one spot and in one hour. All the talents and all the accomplish- 
ments which are developed by liberty and civilization were now 
displayed, with every advantage that could be derived both from 
co-operation and from contrast. Every step in the proceedings 
carried the mind either backward, through many troubled centuries, 
to the days when the foundations of our constitution were laid; 
or far away, over boundless seas and deserts, to dusky nations living 
under strange stars, worshipping strange gods, and writing strange 
characters from right to left. The High Court of Parliament was 
to sit, according to forms handed down from the days of the Plan- 
tagenets, on an Englishman accused of exercising tyranny over the 
lord of the holy city of Benares, and over the ladies of the princely 
house of Oude. 4 

The place was worthy of such a trial. It was the great hall of 
William Rufus, the hall which had resounded with acclamations 
at the inauguration of thirty kings, the hall which had witnessed 
the just sentence of Bacon and the just absolution of Somers, 8 
the hall where the eloquence of Strafford had for a moment awed 
and melted a victorious party inflamed with just resentment, the 
hall where Charles had confronted the High Court of Justice 
with the placid courage which has half redeemed his fame. Neither 
military nor civil pomp was wanting. The avenues were lined 
with grenadiers. The streets were kept clear by cavalry. The 
peers, robed in gold and ermine, were marshalled by the heralds 
under Garter King-at-arms. 6 The judges in their vestments of 
state attended to give advice on points of law. Near a hundred 
and seventy lords, three fourths of the Upper House as the Upper 
House then was, walked in solemn order from their usual place of 
assembling to the tribunal. The junior Baron present lead the 
way, George Eliott, Lord Heathfield, recently ennobled for his 
memorable defence of Gibraltar against the fleets and armies of 
. France and Spain. The long procession was closed by the Duke 
of Norfolk, Earl Marshal of the realm, by the great dignitaries, 
and by the brothers and sons of the King. Last of all came the 
Prince of Wales, conspicuous by his fine person and noble bearing. 



TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS. 639 

The gray old walls were hung with scarlet. The long galleries 
were crowded by an audience such as has rarely excited the fears 
or the emulations of an orator. There were gathered together, 
from all parts of a great, free, enlightened, and prosperous empire, 
grace and female loveliness, wit and learning, the representatives 
of every science and of every art. There were seated round the 
Queen the fair-haired young daughters of the House of Brunswick. 
There the ambassadors of great Kings and Commonwealths gazed 
in admiration on a spectacle which no other country in the world 
could present. There Siddons, 1 in the prime of her majestic beauty, 
looked with emotion on a scene surpassing all the imitations of 
the stage. There the historian of the Roman Empire thought of 
the days when Cicero pleaded the cause of Sicily against Verres, 
and when, before a senate which still retained some show of free- 
dom, Tacitus thundered against the oppressor of Africa. s There 
were seen side by side the greatest painter and the greatest scholar 
of the age. The spectacle had allured Reynolds from that easel 
which preserved to us the thoughtful foreheads of so many writers 
and statesmen, and the sweet smiles of so many noble matrons. 
It had induced Parr to suspend his labors in that dark and pro- 
found mine from which he had extracted a vast treasure of erudi- 
tion, a treasure too often buried in the earth, too often paraded with 
injudicious and inelegant ostentation, but still precious, massive, 
and splendid. There appeared the voluptuous charms of her to 
whom the heir of the throne had in secret plighted his faith. There 
too was she, the beautiful mother of a beautiful race, the Saint 
Cecilia, whose delicate features, lighted up by love and music, art 
has rescued from the common decay. There were the members of 
that brilliant society which quoted, criticized, and exchanged repar- 
tees, under the rich peacock-hangings of Mrs. Montague. And 
there the ladies whose lips, more persuasive than those of Fox 
himself, had carried the Westminster election against palace and 
treasury, shone around Georgiana Duchess of Devonshire. 

The Serjeants made proclamation. Hastings advanced to the 
bar. and bent his knee. The culprit was indeed not unworthy 
of that great presence. He had ruled an extensive and popu- 
lous country, had made laws and treaties, had sent forth 
armies, had set up and pulled down princes. And in his 
high place he had so borne himself, that all had feared him, 
that, most had loved him, and that hatred itself could deny him no 



640 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

title to glory, except virtue. He looked like a great man, and not 
like a bad man. A person small and emaciated, yet deriving dignity 
from a carriage which, while it indicated deference to the court, 
indicated also habitual self-possession and self-respect, a high and 
intellectual forehead, a brow pensive, but not gloomy, a mouth of 
inflexible decision, a face pale and worn, but serene, on which was 
written, as legibly as under the picture in the council-chamber at 
Calcutta, Mens cequa in arduis, 9 such was the aspect with which the 
great Proconsul presented himself to his judges. 

His counsel accompanied him, men ail of whom were afterwards 
raised by their talents and learning to the highest posts in their 
profession, the bold and strong-minded Law, afterwards Chief 
Justice of the King's Bench ; the more humane and eloquent 
Dallas, afterwards Chief Justice of the Common Pleas ; and Plomer 
who, near twenty years later, successfully conducted in the same 
high court the defence of Lord Melville, and subsequently be- 
came Vice-chancellor and Master of the Rolls. 

But neither the culprit nor his advocates attracted so much 
notice as the accusers. In the midst of the blaze of red drapery, 
a space had been fitted up with green benches and tables for the 
Commons. The managers, with Burke at their head, appeared in 
full dress. 10 The collectors of gossip did not fail to remark that 
even Fox, generally so regardless of his appearance, had paid to the 
illustrious tribunal the compliment of wearing a bag and sword. 
Pitt had refused to be one of the conductors of the impeachment ; 
and his commanding, copious, and sonorous eloquence was wanting 
to that great muster of various talents. Age and blindness had 
unfitted Lord North for the duties of a public prosecutor; and his 
friends were left without the help of his excellent sense, his tact, 
and his urbanity. But, in spite of the absence of these two dis- 
tinguished members of the Lower House, the box in which the 
managers stood contained an array of speakers such as perhaps 
had not appeared together since the great age of Athenian elo- 
quence. There were Fox and Sheridan, the English Demosthenes 
and the English Hyperides. 11 There was Burke, ignorant indeed, 
or negligent of the art of adapting his reasonings and his style to 
the capacity and taste of his hearers, but in amplitude of compre- 
hension and richness of imagination superior to every orator, 
ancient or modern. There, with eyes reverentially fixed on Burke, 
appeared the finest gentleman of the age, his form developed by 



TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS. 641 

every manly exercise, his face beaming with intelligence and spirit, 
the ingenious, the chivalrous, the high-souled Windham. Nor, 
though surrounded by such men, did the youngest manager pass 
unnoticed. At an age when most of those who distinguish them- 
selves in life are still contending for prizes and fellowships at 
college, he had won for himself a conspicuous place in parliament. 
No advantage of fortune or connection was wanting that could set 
off to the height his splendid talents and his unblemished honor. 
At twenty-three he had been thought worthy to be ranked with the 
veteran statesmen who appeared as the delegates of the British 
Commons, at the bar of the British nobility. All who stood at 
that bar, save him alone, are gone, culprit, advocate, accusers. 
To the generation which is now in the vigor of life, he is the sole 
representative of a great age which has passed away. But those 
who, within the last ten years, have listened with delight, till the 
morning sun shone on the tapestries of the House of Lords, to 
the lofty and animated eloquence of Charles Earl Grey, are able to 
form some estimate of the powers of a race of men among whom 
he was not the foremost. 

The charges and the answers of Hastings were first read. The 
ceremony occupied two whole days, and was rendered less tedious 
than it would otherwise have been by the silver voice and just 
emphasis of Cowper, the clerk of the court, a near relation of the 
amiable poet. On the third clay Burke rose. Four sittings were 
occupied by his opening speech, which was intended to be a general 
introduction to all the charges. With an exuberance of thought 
and a splendor of diction which more than satisfied the highly 
raised expectation of the audience, he described the character 
and institutions of the natives of India, recounted the circum- 
stances in which the Asiatic empire of Britain had originated, 
and set forth the constitution of the Company and of the English 
presidencies. Having thus attempted to communicate to his hearers 
an idea of Eastern society, as vivid as that which existed in his 
own mind, he proceeded to arraign the administration of Hastings 
as systematically conducted in defiance of morality and public law. 
The energy and pathos of the great orator extorted expressions of 
unwonted admiration from the stern and hostile Chancellor, and, 
for a moment, seemed to pierce even the resolute heart of the de- 
fendant. The ladies in the galleries, unaccustomed to such displays 
of eloquence, excited by the solemnity of the occasion, and perhaps 



642 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

not unwilling to display their taste and sensibility, were in a state 
of uncontrollable emotion. Handkerchiefs were pulled out; smell- 
ing bottles were handed round ; hysterical sobs .and screams were 
heard ; and Mrs. Sheridan was carried out in a fit. At length the 
orator concluded. Raising his voice till the old arches of Irish oak 
resounded, " Therefore," he said, " hath it with all confidence been 
ordered, by the Commons of Great Britain, that 1 impeach Warren 
Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors. I impeach him in the 
name of the Commons' House of Parliament, whose trust he has 
betrayed. I impeach him in the name of the English nation, whose 
ancient honor he has sullied. I impeach him in the name of the 
people of India, whose rights he has trodden under foot, and 
whose country he has turned into a desert. Lastly, in the name of 
human nature itself, in the name of both sexes, in the name of 
every age, in the name of every rank, I impeach the common 
enemy and oppressor of all ! " 

When the deep murmur of various emotions had subsided, Mr. 
Fox rose to address the Lords respecting the course of proceeding 
to be followed. The wish of the accusers was that the Court would 
bring to a close the investigation of the first charge before the 
second was opened. The wish of Hastings and of his counsel was 
that the managers should open all the charges, and produce all the 
evidence for the prosecution, before the defence began. The Lords 
retired to their own House to consider the question. The Chan- 
cellor took the side of Hastings. Lord Loughborough, who was 
now in opposition, supported the demand of the managers. The 
division showed which way the inclination of the tribunal leaned. 
A majority of near three to one decided in favor of the course 
for which Hastings contended. 

When the Court sat again, Mr. Fox, assisted by Mr. Grey, 
opened the charge respecting Cheyte Sing, and several days were 
spent in reading papers and hearing witnesses. The next article 
was that relating to the Princesses of Oude. The conduct of this 
part of the case was intrusted to Sheridan. The curiosity of the 
public to hear him was unbounded. His sparkling and highly 
finished declamation lasted two days ; but the Hall was crowded 
to suffocation during the whole time. It was said that fifty guineas 
had been paid for a single ticket. Sheridan, when he concluded, 
contrived, with a knowledge of stage effect which his father might 



TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS. 643 

have envied, to sink back as if exhausted, into the arms of Burke, 
who hugged him with the energy of generous admiration. 

June was now far advanced. The session could not last much 
longer ; and the progress which had been made in the impeachment 
was not very satisfactory. There were twenty charges. On two 
only of these had even the case for the prosecution been heard; 
and it was now a year since Hastings had been admitted to bail. 

The interest taken by the public in the trial was great when the 
Court began to sit, and rose to the height when Sheridan spoke on 
the charge relating to the Begums. 12 From that time the excite- 
ment went down fast. The spectacle had lost the attraction of 
novelty. The great displays of rhetoric were over. What was 
behind was not of a nature to entice men of letters from their 
books in the morning, or to tempt ladies who had left the masquer- 
ade at two to be out of bed before eight. There remained exami- 
nations and cross-examinations. There remained statements of 
accounts. There remained the reading of papers, filled with words 
unintelligible to English ears, with lacs and crores, zemindars and 
aumils, sunnuds and perwannahs, jaghires and nuzzurs. 13 There 
remained bickerings, not always carried on with the best taste or 
with the best temper, between the managers of the inpeachment 
and the counsel for the defence, particularly between Mr. Burke 
and Mr. Law. 

At length, in the spring of 1795, the decision was pronounced, 
near eight years after Hastings had been brought by the Serjeant- 
at-arms of the Commons to the bar of the Lords. On the last day 
of this great procedure the public curiosity, long suspended, seemed 
to be revived. Anxiety about the judgment there could be none; 
for it had been fully ascertained that there was a great majority for 
the defendant. Nevertheless many wished to see the pageant, and 
the hall was as much crowded as on the first day. But those who, 
having been present on the first day, now bore a part in the pro- 
ceedings of the last, were few ; and most of those few were altered 
men. 

As Hastings himself said, the arraignment had taken place be- 
fore one generation, and the judgment was pronounced by another. 
The spectator could not look at the woolsack, 14 or at the red 
benches of the Peers, or at the green benches of the Commons, 
without seeing something that reminded him of the instability of 
all human things, of the instability of power and fame and life, 



644 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of the more lamentable instability of friendship. The great seal 
was borne before Lord Loughborough, who, when the trial com- 
menced, was a fierce opponent of Mr. Pitt's government, and who 
was now a member of that government, while Thurlow, who pre- 
sided in the Court when it first sat, estranged from all his old allies, 
sat scowling among the junior barons. Of about a hundred and 
sixty nobles who walked in the procession on the first day, sixty 
had been laid in their family vaults. Still more affecting must 
have been the sight of the managers' box. What had become of 
that fair fellowship, so closely bound together by public and private 
ties, so resplendent with every talent and accomplishment? It had 
been scattered by calamities more bitter than the bitterness of 
death. The great chiefs were still living, and still in the full vigor 
of their genius. But their friendship was at an end. It had been 
violently and publicly dissolved, with tears and stormy reproaches. 
If those men, once so dear to each other, were now compelled to 
meet for the purpose of managing the impeachment, they met as 
strangers whom public business had brought together, and behaved 
to each other with cold and distant civility. Burke had in his vor- 
tex whirled away Windham. Fox had been followed by Sheridan 
and Grey. 

Only twenty-nine Peers voted. Of these only six found Hastings 
guilty on the charges relating to Cheyte Sing and to the Begums. 
On the other charges, the majority in his favor was still greater. 
On some he was unanimously absolved. He was then called to the 
bar, was informed from the woolsack that the Lords had acquitted 
him, and was solemnly discharged. He bowed respectfully and 
retired. 

We have said that the decision had been fully expected. It was 
also generally approved. At the commencement of the trial there 
had been a strong and indeed unreasonable feeling against Hastings. 
At the close of the trial there was a feeling equally strong and 
equally unreasonable in his favor. One cause of the change was, 
no doubt, what is commonly called the fickleness of the multitude, 
but what seems to us to be merely the general law of human nature. 
Both in individuals and in masses violent excitement is always fol- 
lowed by remission, and often by reaction. We are all inclined 
to depreciate whatever we have overpraised, and, on the other hand, 
to show undue indulgence where we have shown undue rigor. It 
was thus in the case of Hastings. The length of his trial, more- 



TRIAL' OF WARREN HASTINGS. 645 

over, made him an object of compassion. It was thought, and 
not without reason, that, even if he was guilty, he was still an ill- 
used man, and that an impeachment of eight years was more than 
a sufficient punishment. It was also felt that, though, in the or- 
dinary course of criminal law, a defendant is not allowed to set 
off his good actions against his crimes, a great political cause 
should be tried on different principles, and that a man who had 
governed an empire during thirteen years might have done some 
very reprehensible things, and yet might be on the whole deserving 
of rewards and honors rather than of fine and imprisonment. The 
press, an instrument neglected by the prosecutors, was used by 
Hastings and his friends with great effect. Every ship, too, that 
arrived from Madras or Bengal, brought a cuddy 15 full of his 
admirers. Every gentleman from India spoke of the late Governor- 
General as having deserved better, and having been treated worse, 
than any man living. The effect of this testimony unanimously 
given by all persons who knew the East was naturally very great. 
Retired members of the Indian service, civil and military, were set- 
tled in all corners of the kingdom. Each of them was, of course, 
in his own little circle, regarded as an oracle on an Indian ques- 
tion, and they were, with scarcely one exception, the zealous advo- 
cates of Hastings. It is to be added, that the numerous addresses 
to the late Governor-General, which his friends in Bengal obtained 
from the natives and transmitted to England, made a considerable 
impression. To these addresses we attach little or no importance. 
That Hastings was beloved by the people whom he governed is 
true; but the eulogies of pundits, 16 zemindars, 17 Mahommedan doc- 
tors, do not prove it to be true. For an English collector or judge 
would have found it easy to induce any native who could write to 
sign a panegyric on the most odious ruler that ever was in India. 
It was said that at Benares, the very place at which the acts set 
forth in the first article of impeachment had been committed, the 
natives had erected a temple to Hastings, and this story excited a 
strong sensation in England. Burke's observations on the apothe- 
osis were admirable. He saw no reason for astonishment, he said, 
in the incident which had been represented as so striking. He 
knew something of the mythology of the Brahmins. He knew 
that as they worshipped some gods from love, so they worshipped 
others from fear. He knew that they erected shrines, not only to 
the benignant deities of light and plenty, but also to the fiends who 



646 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

preside over small-pox and murder ; nor did he at all dispute the 
claim of Mr. Hastings to be admitted into such a Pantheon. This 
reply has always struck us as one of the finest that was ever made 
in Parliament. It is a grave and forcible argument, decorated by 
the most brilliant wit and fancy. 

Hastings was, however, safe. But in everything except char- 
acter, he would have been far better off if, when first impeached, 
he had at once pleaded guilty, and paid a fine of fifty thousand 
pounds. He was a ruined man. The legal expenses of his de- 
fence had been enormous. The expenses which did not appear 
in his attorney's bill were perhaps larger still. Great sums had 
been paid to Major Scott. Great sums had been laid out in bribing 
newspapers, rewarding pamphleteers, and circulating tracts. Burke, 
so early as 1790, declared in the House of Commons that twenty 
thousand pounds had been employed in corrupting the press. It is 
certain that no controversial weapon, from the gravest reasoning to 
the coarsest ribaldry, was left unemployed. Logan defended the 
accused Governor with great ability in prose. For the lovers of 
verse, the speeches of the managers were burlesqued in Simpkin's 
letters. It is, we are afraid, indisputable that Hastings stooped 
so low as to court the aid of that malignant and filthy baboon John 
Williams, who called himself Anthony Pasquin. It was necessary 
to subsidize such allies largely. The private hoards of Mrs. Has- 
tings had disappeared. It is said that the banker to whom they 
had been entrusted had failed. Still if Hastings had practised strict 
economy, he would, after all his losses, have had a moderate compe- 
tence ; but in the management of his private affairs he was impru- 
dent. The dearest wish of his heart had always been to regain 
Daylesford. ls At length, in the very year in which his trial com- 
menced, the wish was accomplished ; and the domain, alienated 
more than seventy years before, returned to the descendant of its 
old lords. But the manor house was a ruin ; and the grounds 
round it had, during many years, been utterly neglected. Hastings 
proceeded to build, to plant, to form a sheet of water, to excavate 
a grotto ; and before he was dismissed from the bar of the House of 
Lords, he had expended more than forty thousand pounds in adorn- 
ing his seat. 



NOTES TO MACAU LAY. °47 



NOTES TO MACAULAY. 

The preceding selection is taken from Macaulay's essay on 
Warren Hastings, which first appeared in the Edinburgh Review, 
October, 1841. The essay, as a whole, is an elaborate study of the 
life of Hastings, particularly of his administration as governor- 
general of India. The selection is a typical specimen of Macaulay's 
style. The description of the hall of William Rufus, in which the 
impeachment trial was held, is a brilliant and characteristic piece of 
writing. 

An acquaintance with the following facts will prepare the way 
for a better appreciation of the selection. Hastings had been 
governor-general of India for twelve years. During this lengthy 
term of office, he had been guilty of various acts of extortion and 
cruelty. He exacted vast sums of money from Cheyte Sing, the 
rajah of Benares, and deprived the princesses or begums of Oude 
of their domains and treasures. But his administration had its 
beneficent features. He acted with vigor and success against the 
enemies of England, and organized an excellent system of civil 
administration. Justice was dispensed, and peace maintained. 
When he left India in the spring of 1785, English supremacy was 
firmly established. Accordingly, on his arrival in England, he was 
cordially welcomed by George III. and the Court, and the East 
India Company recognized his services with a unanimous vote of 
thanks. 

But the Whig opposition in Parliament, magnifying his injustice 
and tyranny, carried a motion in the House of Commons for his 
impeachment before the bar of the Lords. The trial began Feb. 13, 
1788, and ended with the defendant's acquittal April 23, 1795. The 
remaining twenty-four years of Hastings' life were spent at Dayles- 
ford, his ancestral estates in Worcestershire, in the pursuit of liter- 
ature and occupations of a country gentleman. He died Aug. 
22, 1818, at the advanced age of eighty-six years. 

1. This was Sir Philip Francis (1740-1818), who had been a rival 
of Hastings for supremacy in India. He is supposed to have been 
the author of the famous " Letters of Junius." 



648 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

2. William Windham (1 750-1810) was a prominent orator and 
statesman, who served as secretary of war in Pitt's cabinet, 1794- 
1801. 

3. Henry Dundas, Viscount Melville (1742-1811) was a Scottish 
statesman, who filled various high offices under the English govern- 
ment. 

4. See the introductory note above. 

5. John Somers (1652-1716), a prominent Whig statesman, was 
impeached by the Commons for helping to negotiate an unpopular 
treaty. The charges were dismissed by the House of Lords. 

6. Garter King-at-Arms = the chief of the English office of her- 
alds. 

7. Sarah Kemble Siddons (1755-1831) was the leading tragic 
actress of England in her day. 

8. This was Marius, the proconsul of Africa. He was prosecuted, 
99 A. D., by Tacitus, the celebrated Roman historian. 

9. Mens cequa in arduis = a mind calm under difficulties. 

10. For a brief notice of these several orators, see the introduc- 
tion to the " Age of Johnson " on a preceding page. 

11. Hyperides was an Athenian orator, who prosecuted Demos- 
thenes in the fourth century B. C. 

12. Begums = Mohammedan princesses. 

13. Any one interested in this Anglo-Indian diction will find 
these words defined in the Standard Dictionary. 

14. Woolsack = the cushion stuffed with wool, which served as 
seat for the Lord Chancellor when presiding in the House of 
Peers. 

15. Cuddy = 3. small cabin — a nautical word. 

16. Pundit = a learned Brahman. From Sanscrit pandit a, learned. 

17. Zemindar = a native landlord of India required to pay a cer- 
tain landtax to the English government. 

18. See the introductory note above. 



SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING. 640 



THE LOST LEADER. 1 
I. 

Just for a handful of silver he left us, 

Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, 

Lost all the others she lets us devote ; 
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, 
So much was theirs who so little allowed : 
How all our copper had gone for his service ! 

Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud ! 
We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, 

Lived in his mild .and magnificent eye, 
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, 

Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, 

Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from their 
graves ! 
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, — 

He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 

II. 

We shall march prospering, — not thro' his presence; 

Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre; 
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence, 

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire : 
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, 

One task more declined, one more foot-path untrod, 
One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, 

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! 
Life's night begins : let him never come back to us ! 

There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, 



650 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight, 
Never glad confident morning again ! 

Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gallantly, 
Menace our heart ere we master his own ; 

Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, 
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM 
GHENT TO AIX. 2 

I. 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 
" Good speed ! " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ; 
" Speed ! " echoed the wall to us galloping through ; 

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

II. 

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

III. 

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near 

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear ; 

At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; 

At Diiffield, 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, 

So Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time ! " 

IV. 

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, 

And against him the cattle stood black every one, 



SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING. 651 

To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past, 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray : 

V. 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master askance ! 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 

VI. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay spur ! 

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, 

We'll remember at Aix " — for one heard the quick wheeze 

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, 

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

VII. 

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff ; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 

And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight ! " 

VIII. 

* How they'll greet us ! " — and all in a moment his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 



652 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

IX. 

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, 

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer ; 

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, 

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 



And all I remember is — friends flocking round 

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground ; 

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. 

EVELYN HOPE.s 



Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower 
Beginning to die, too, in the glass; 

Little has yet been changed, I think : 
The shutters are shut, no light may pass 

Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. 

II. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; 
It was not her time to love ; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares, 

And now was quiet, now astir, 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 



SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING. 653 

III. 

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope 

What, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire and dew — 
And, just because I was thrice as old 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
Each v/as nought to each, must I be told? 

We were fellow mortals, nought beside? 

IV. 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love : 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few : 
Much is to learn, much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

V. 

But the time will come, — at last it will, 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) 
In the lower earth, in the years long still, 

That body and soul so pure and gay? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red — 
And what you would do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

' VI. 

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gained me the gains of various men. 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 
Yet one thing; one, in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me : 



654 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 
What is the issue? let us see! 

VII. 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while. 

My heart seemed full as it could be? 
There was place and to spare for the frank young 
smile, 

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. 
So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep : 

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand ! 
There, that is our secret : go to sleep ! 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD. 4 

I. 

Oh, to be in England 

Now that April's there, 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, unaware, 

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheai 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 

In England — now ! 

II. 

And after April, when May follows, 

And the white throat builds, and all the swallows ! 

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 

Blossoms and dew drops — at the bent spray's edge — 

That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 

The first fine careless rapture ! 

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 

The buttercups, the little children's dower — 

Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! 



SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING. 655 



MY LAST DUCHESS. 5 



That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 

Looking as if she were alive. I call 

That piece a wonder, now : Fra Pandolf s hands 

Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 

Will 't please you cit and look at her? I said 

" Fra Pandolf " by design, for never read 

Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 

The depth and passion of its earnest glance, 

But to myself they turned (since none puts by 

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, 

How such a glance came there; so, not the first 

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 

Her husband's presence only, called that spot 

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps 

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, " Her mantle laps 

Over my lady's wrist too much," or, " Paint 

Must never hope to reproduce the faint 

Half-flush that dies along her throat : " such stuff 

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 

For calling up that spot of joy. She had 

A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made glad, 

Too easily impressed ; she liked whate'er 

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 

Sir, 'twas all one ! My favor at her breast, 

The dropping of the daylight in the West, 

The bough of cherries some officious fool 

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 

She rode with round the terrace — all and each 

Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 

Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good, but thanked 

Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked 

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame 

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill 



656 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

In speech — which I have not — to make your will 

Quite clear to such an one, and say, " Just this 

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,- 

Or there exceed the mark" — and if she let 

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, — 

E'en then would be some stooping ; and I choose 

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, 

Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed without 

Much the same smile ? This grew ; I gave commands ; 

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 

As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet 

The company below, then. I repeat, 

The Count your master's known munificence 

Is ample warrant that no just pretence 

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; 

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 

At starting", is my object. Nay, we'll go 

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, 

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me ! 



HERVE RIEL. 7 
I. 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, 
Did the English fight the French, — woe to France! 

And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue s 

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, 
Came crowding ship on ship to Saint-Malo on the Ranee, 8 

With the English fleet in view. 

II. 

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; 
First and foremost of the drove, in his ship, Damfreville; 
Close on him fled, great and small, 
Twenty-two good ships in all ; 
And they signalled to the place 



SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING. 657 

" Help the winners of a race ! 

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick — or, quicker 

still, 
Here's the English can and will ! " 

III. 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; 

" Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass ? " 
laughed they : 
" Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and 

scored, — ■ 
Shall the ' Formidable ' here, with her twelve and eighty guns, 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, 
Trust to enter — where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, 
And with flow at full beside? 
Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring? Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs, 

Not a ship will leave the bay ! " 

IV. 

Then was called a council straight. 
Brief and bitter the debate : 

" Here's the English at our heels ; would you have them take 
in tow 

All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, 
For a prize to Plymouth Sound? 
Better run the ships aground ! " 

(Ended Damfreville his speech.) 
" Not a minute more to wait ! 

Let the captains all and each 

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach ! 
France must undergo her fate. 

V. 

Give the word ! " But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard ; 

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these — 



658 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

A captain? A lieutenant? A mate — first, second, third? 
No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete ! 

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, 
A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. 9 

VI. 

And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Herve Riel: 
" Are you mad, you malouins ? 10 Are you cowards, fools, or 
rogues ? 
Talk to me of rock and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell 
On my fingers every bank, every Liallow, every swell 

'Twixt the offing here and Grcve where the river disembogues? 
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? 
Morn and eve, night end day, 
Have I piloted your bay, 
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. 

Burn the Fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty 
Hogues ! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! Sirs, believe me there's 
a way ! 
Only let me lead the line, 

Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this ' Formidable ' clear, 
Make the others follow mine, 

And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, 
Right to Solidor past Greve, 

And there lay them safe and sound; 
And if one ship misbehave, — 

Keel so much as grate the ground, 
Why, I've nothing but my life, — here's my head ! ' cries Herve 
Riel. 

VII. 

Not a minute more to wait. 

" Steer us in, then, small and great ! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron ! " cried its chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place ! 

He is admiral, in brief. 



SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING. 659 

Still the north-wind, by God's grace; 
See the noble fellow's face 

As the big ship, with a bound, 
Clears the entry like a hound, 

Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the wide sea's 
profound ! 
See, safe thro' shoal and rock, 
How they follow in a flock, 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, 

Not a spar that comes to grief ! 
The peril, see, is past. 
All are harbored to the last, 

And just as Herve Riel hollas "Anchor!" — sure as fate, 
Up the English come, — too late ! 

VIII. 

So, the storm subsides to calm: 

They see the green trees wave 
On the heights o'erlooking Greve. 
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 
" Just our rapture to enhance, 

Let the English rake the bay, 
Gnash their teeth and glare askance 

As they cannonade away ! 
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Ranee ! " 
How hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! 
Out burst all with one accord, 
" This is Paradise for Hell ! 

Let France, let France's King 
Thank the man that did the thing ! " 
What a shout, and all one word, 

" Herve Riel ! " 
As he stepped in front once more, 
Not a symptom of surprise 
In the frank blue Breton eyes, 
Just the same man as before. 



66o ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

IX. 

Then said Damfreville, " My friend, 
I must speak out at the end, 

Though I find the speaking hard. 
Praise is deeper than the lips : 
You have saved the king his ships, 

You must name your own reward. 
Faith, our sun was near eclipse ! 

Demand whate'er you will, 

France remains your debtor still. 

Ask to heart's content and have ! or my name's not Damfreville." 

X. 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke, 

As the honest heart laughed through 

Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 
" Since I needs must say my say, 

Since on board the duty's done, 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run ? 
Since 'tis ask and have, I. may — 

Since the others go ashore — 
Come ! A good whole holiday ! 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore ! " 

That he asked, and that he got, — nothing more. 

XL 

Name and deed alike are lost: 
Not a pillar nor a post 

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing-smack, 
In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack 

All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the 
bell. 
Go to Paris : rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 



SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING. 66 1 

On the Lonvre, face and flank ! 

You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. 
So, for better and for worse, 
Herve Riel, accept my verse ! 

In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more 

Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle 
Aurore ! 



662 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO BROWNING. 



THE LOST LEADER. 



i. "The Lost Leader" referred to was Wordsworth, who in 
his later years gave up the liberal sentiments of his early man- 
hood. The poem sets forth the resentful feelings of the Liberals 
who regarded themselves as deserted in their contest for human- 
ity and freedom. In reply to an inquiry Browning wrote : " There 
is no sort of objection to one more assurance or rather confession, 
on my part, that I did in my hasty youth presume to use the great 
and venerable personality of Wordsworth as a sort of painter's 
model ; one from which this or the other particular feature may 
be selected and turned to account; had I intended more, above 
all, such a boldness as portraying the entire man, I should not 
have talked about ' handfuls of' silver and bits of ribbon.' These 
never influenced the change of politics in the great poet, whose 
defection, nevertheless, accompanied as it was by a regular face- 
about of his special party, was to my juvenile apprehension, and 
even mature consideration, an event to deplore." 

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. 

2. This splendid lyric is a piece of pure fiction. In a letter to 
an American inquirer Browning wrote: "There is no sort of his- 
torical foundation for the poem about ' Good News from Ghent.' 
I wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel, off the African coast, 
after I. had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy 
of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse ' York ' then in 
my stable at home." This poem, as well as " The Lost Leader," 
was first published in 1845. 

The distance supposed to have been covered by " Roland " was 
something more than one hundred and twenty-five miles. The 
imaginary route may be traced on a good map of the Netherlands. 



NOTES TO BROWNING. 663 



EVELYN HOPE. 

3. The meaning of this delightful poem becomes fairly clear 
when we remember two of the fundamental principles of Brown- 
ing's poetry. The first is that the deep, divine passion of love is 
a guarantee of immortality. The second is, as pointed out in the 
preceding sketch, that " all we have willed or hoped or dreamed of 
good, shall exist." The pure deep love felt for Evelyn Hope is 
a pledge of continued existence — 

" Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few ;" 

and the dream of happiness with her, which failed of realization 
here will, therefore, find its fruition in the future world. 

" For God above 
Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love." 

HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD. 

4. This little poem was first published in 1845. It is interesting 
chiefly as illustrating Browning's love for nature, and his power 
in describing its familiar objects. As will be seen, it is quite clear 
throughout. 

MY LAST DUCHESS. 

5. A fine specimen of Browning's dramatic monologue. An ex- 
planation of this poem will be found in the preceding sketch. The 
artists mentioned are imaginary characters. 

6. Having reached the top of the staircase, the count's agent, who 
is the social inferior of the duke, hesitates a moment. With pol- 
ished courtesy the duke says, " Nay, we'll go together down." 

In the dramatic monologue it is not outward incident or the 
development of a plot that constitutes the main interest. These 
are entirely secondary, and are generally left to be inferred. The 
principal interest is found in a psychologic situation or in the de- 
lineation of character. It is the inner life — the secret working of 
the soul — >that is brought to light. In this poem the interest lies 
in the self-revelation of the proud, cultured, unsympathetic duke, 
in the portrayal of the radiant amiability of the duchess, and in 



664 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

the tragic results of his unfeeling repression of her spontaneous 
and unselfish joy. 

HERVE RIEL. 

7. This poem was first published in the Cornhill Magazine, March, 
1871. The poet was paid $500 for it, which sum he contributed to 
the Paris Relief Fund. This fund was used to send food to 
Paris after that city had been besieged by the Germans. 

The incidents actually occurred as related in the poem, except 
that the holiday granted to the hero to see his wife, " the Belle 
Aurore," continued, not for one day, but for the rest of his life. 

The battle of La Hogue was fought on May 19, 1692, near the 
Isle of Wight. Le Croisic is a small fishing village near the mouth 
of the Loire. St. Malo and La Hogue are on the coast of Nor- 
mandy. 

8. The Ranee is a small river which empties into the English 
Channel at St. Malo. 

9. Croisickcsc = a native of the village of Le Croisic. 

10. Malouins = natives of St. Malo. 



SELECTION FROM CARLYLE. 665 



III. 

HAPPY. 

All work, even cotton-spinning', is noble ; * work is alone noble : 
be it here said and asserted once more. And in like manner, too, 
all dignity u painful ; a life of ease is not for any man, nor for 
any god. The life of all gods figures itself to us as a Sublime Sad- 
ness, 2 — earnestness of Infinite Battle against Infinite Labor. Our 
highest religion is named the " Worship of Sorrow." For the 
Son of man there is no noble crown, well worn or even ill worn, 
but is a crown of thorns ! These things, in spoken words, or still 
better, in felt instincts alive in every heart, were once well known. 

Does not the whole wretchedness, the whole Atheism as I call 
it, of man's ways, in these generations, shadow itself for us in that 
unspeakable life-philosophy of his : The pretension to be what 
he calls " happy " ? Every pitifulest whipster that walks within a 
skin has his head filled with the notion that he is, shall be, or 
by all human and divine laws ought to be " happy." His wishes, 
the pitifulest whipster's, are to be fulfilled for him; his days, the 
pitifulest whipster's, are to flow on in ever-gentle currents of en- 
joyment, impossible c~ \i for the gods. The prophets preach to us, 
Thou shalt be happy ; thou shalt love pleasant things, and find 
them. The people clamor, Why have we not found pleasant things ? 

We construct our theory of Human Duties, not on any Greatest- 
Nobleness Principle, never so mistaken ; no, but on a Greatest- 
Happiness Principle. 3 " The word Soul with us, as in some 
Slavonic dialects, seems to be synonymous with Stomach." 4 We 
plead and speak, in our Parliaments and elsewhere, not as from 
the Soul, but from the Stomach ; wherefore indeed our pleadings 
are so slow to profit. We plead not for God's Justice ; we are not 
ashamed to stand clamori.;j and pleading for our own "interests," 
our own rents and trade-profits ; we say, They are the " interests " 
of so many ; there is such an intense desire in us for them ! 
We demand Free-Trade, with much just vociferation and benevo- 



666 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

lence, that the poorer classes, who are terribly ill off at present, 
may have cheaper New Orleans bacon. Men ask on Free-Trade 
Platforms, How can the indomitable spirit of Englishmen be 
kept up without plenty of bacon? We shall become a ruined Na- 
tion ! — Surely, my friends, plenty of bacon is good and indispen- 
sable : but, I doubt, you will never get even bacon by aiming only 
at that. You are men, not animals of prey, well-used or ill-used ! 
Your Greatest-Happiness Principle seems to me fast becoming a 
rather unhappy one. What if we should cease babbling about 
" happiness," and leave it resting on its own basis, as it used to do ! 

A gifted Byron 5 rises in his wrath ; and feeling too surely 
that he for his part is not " happy," declares the same in very 
violent language, as a piece of news that may be interesting. It 
evidently has surprised him much. One dislikes to see a man and 
poet reduced to proclaim on the streets such tidings : but on the 
whole, as matters go, that is not the most dislikable. Byron 
speaks the truth in this matter. Byron's large audience indicates 
how true it is felt to be. 

" Happy," my brother? First of all, what difference is it whether 
thou art happy or not ! To-day becomes Yesterday so fast, all To- 
morrows become Yesterdays ; and then there is no question what- 
ever of the " happiness," but quite another question. Nay, thou 
hast such a sacred pity left at least for thyself, thy very pains, once 
gone over into Yesterday, become joys to thee. Besides, thou 
knowest not what heavenly blessedness and indispensable sanative 
virtue was in them; thou shalt only know it after many days, 
when thou art wiser! A benevolent old Surgeon sat once in our 
company with a Patient fallen sick by gourmandizing, whom he 
had just, too briefly in the Patient's judgment, been examining. 
The foolish patient still at intervals continued to break in on our 
discourse, which rather promised to take a philosophic turn : 
"But I have lost my appetite," said he, objurgatively, with a tone 
of irritated pathos ; " I have no appetite ; I can't eat ! " " My dear 
fellow," .answered the Doctor in mildest tone, " it isn't of the 
slightest consequence " ; and continued his philosophical discoursings 
with us ! 

Or does the reader not know the history of that Scottish iron 
Misanthrope ? 6 The inmates of some town-mansion, in those 
Northern parts, were thrown into the fearfulest alarm by indubitable 
symptoms of a ghost inhabiting the next house, or perhaps even 



SELECTION FROM CARLYLE. 667 

the partition-wall ! Ever at a certain hour, with preternatural 
gnarring, growling and screeching, which attended as running bass, 
there began, in a horrid, semi-articulate, unearthly voice, this song: 
" Once I was hap-hap-happy, but now I'm miserable ! Clack-clack- 
clack, gnar-r-r, whuz-z : Once I was hap-hap-happy, but now I'm 
meesevahle ! " Rest, rest, perturbed spirit ; or indeed, as the good 
old Doctor said : My dear fellow, it isn't of the slightest conse- 
quence ! But no ; the perturbed spirit could not rest ; and to the 
neighbors, fretted, affrighted, or .at least insufferably bored by him, 
it was of such consequence that they had to go and examine in his 
haunted chamber. In his haunted chamber, they find that the 
perturbed spirit is an unfortunate — Imitator of Byron ? No, is 
an unfortunate rusty meat-jack, gnarring and creaking with rust 
and work; and this, in Scottish dialect, is its Byronian musical 
life-philosophy, sung according to ability ! 

Truly, I think the man who goes about pothering and uproaring 
for his ''happiness," — pothering, and were it ballot-boxing, poem- 
making, or in what way soever fussing and exerting himself, — 
he is not the man that will help us to " get our knaves and dastards 
arrested " ! No, he rather is on the way to increase the number, — 
by at least one unit and his tail ! Observe, too, that this is all a 
modern affair : 7 belongs not to the old heroic times, but to these 
dastard new times. " Happiness our being's end and aim," all 
that very paltry speculation is at bottom, if we will count well, not 
yet too centuries old in the world. 

The only happiness a brave man ever troubled himself with 
asking much about was happiness enough to get his work done. 
Not " I can't eat ! " but " I can't work ! " that was the burden of 
all wise complaining among men. It is, after all, the one unhap- 
piness of a man. That he can not work ; that he can not get his 
destiny as a man fulfilled. Behold, the day is passing swiftly over, 
our life is passing swiftly over ; and the night cometh, wherein no 
man can work. 8 The night once come, our happiness, our un- 
happiness, — it is all abolished ; vanished, clean gone ; a thing that 
has been : 9 "not of the slightest consequence " whether we were 
happy as eupeptic Curtis, as the fattest pig of Epicurus, or unhappy 
as Job with potsherds, as musical Byron with Giaours and sensi- 
bilities of the heart; as the unmusical meat-jack with hard labor 
and rust! But our work,— behold that is not abolished, that has 
not vanished : our work, behold, it remains, or the want of it 



668 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

remains ; — for endless Times and Eternities, remains ; and that is 
now the sole question with us forevermore ! Brief brawling Day, 
with its noisy phantasms, its poor paper-crowns, tinsel-gilt, is gone ; 
and divine everlasting Night, with her star-diadems, with her 
silences and her veracities, 10 is come ! What hast thou done, and 
how ? Happiness, unhappiness : all that was but the wages thou 
hadst ; thou hast spent all that, in sustaining thyself hitherward ; 
not a coin of it remains with thee, it is all spent, eaten : and now 
thy work, where is thy work? Swift, out with it; let us see thy 
work! 

Of a truth, if man were not a poor hungry dastard, and even 
much of a blockhead withal, he would cease criticising his victuals 
to such extent ; and criticise himself rather, what he does with 
his victuals ! 



NOTES TO CARLYLE. 669 



NOTES TO CARLYLE. 

" Happy " is a chapter in " Past and Present." For a general 
introduction to this work and a criticism of Carlyle's style, see 
the preceding sketch. This selection is interesting in itself, and 
it also illustrates well the author's style, opinions, and humor. 

1. This is a favorite sentiment of Carlyle's — a part of his 
gospel. In " Sartor Resartus " he asks, " What is the use of health, 
or of life, if not to do some work therewith?" Elsewhere in 
" Past and Present " he says : " All true work is- Religion : and 
whatsoever Religion is not Work may go and dwell among the 
Brahmins, Antinomians, Spinning Dervishes, or where it will ; with 
me it shall have no harbor." 

2. This use of capitals to emphasize important words is one of 
Carlyle's tricks of style. Other instances will be noticed in this 
selection. 

3. Carlyle was an uncompromising opponent of the ethical phi- 
losophy that makes happiness the supreme- end of life. He held 
that man should have higher aims than happiness. " There is in 
man," he says in " Sartor Resartus," " a Higher than Love of Hap- 
piness : he can do without Happiness, and instead thereof find 
Blessedness. Was it not to preach forth this same Higher that 
sages and martyrs, the Poet and the Priest, in all times, have 
spoken and suffered ; bearing testimony, through life and through 
death, of the Godlike that is in Man, and how in the Godlike 
only has he Strength and Freedom? . . . Love not Pleasure; 
love God. This is the Everlasting Yea, wherein all contradiction 
is solved : wherein whoso walks and works, it is well with him." 

4. Carlyle was fond of quoting himself. This sentence is taken 
substantially from his " Schiller." 

5. While recognizing the intellectual power of Byron, Carlyle 
had little sympathy with the moral shortcomings of the noble bard. 
In his essay on Burns, he says, " Satan is Byron's grave exemplar, . 
the hero of his poetry, and the model apparently of his conduct." 

6. What follows may be taken as a fine example of Carlyle's 
grim humor. 



6 7 o ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

7. The principal representatives of the ethical theory that " hap- 
piness is our being's end and aim " were Jeremy Bentham and 
John Stuart Mill ; the former was born in 1748, the latter was 
contemporary with Carlyle. 

8. This is a quotation from John 9:4. 

9. Note the repetition of the same idea in different words for 
the sake of emphasis. In any other writer this would probably 
be called tautology. Carlyle frequently uses this form of repetition. 

10. " Silences," " veracities," " eternities " — usually spelled with 
a capital letter, — were favorite forms of expression with Carlyle. 

11. These last sentences exemplify a notable characteristic of 
Carlyle's style — the impression of direct personal address. When 
writing he seems to have imagined his audience before him, and 
he declaims, gesticulates, and at times fairly shouts his message. 
This fact imparts a peculiar stirring quality to his writing. 



SELECTIONS FROM TENNYSON. 671 



SELECTIONS FROM TENNYSON. 



Break, break, break 

On thy cold gray stones, O sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O well for the sailor lad 
That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ; 

But O for the touch of a vanished hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still 1 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

THE BUGLE SONG. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going! 

O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 



672 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Blow, let ns hear the purple glens replying; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

TEARS, IDLE TEARS. 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail 
That brings our friends up from the under world; 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more. 

DORA. 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was his son, 



SELECTIONS FROM TENNYSON. 673 

And she his niece. He often look'd at them, 
And often thought, ' I'll make them man and wife.' 
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 
And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, because 
He had been always with her in the house, 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, ' My son, 
I married late, but I would wish to see 10 

My grandchild on my knees before I die : 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, 
For many years.' But W r illiam answer'd short; 20 

' I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora.' Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : 
' You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus ! 
But in my time a father's word was law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; 
Consider, William : take a month to think, 
And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 
And never more darken my doors again.' 30 

But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, 
And broke away. The more he look'd at her 
The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house, 
And hired himself to work within the fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed 
A laborer's daughter, M'ary Morrison. 

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd 
His niece and said : ' My girl, I love you well ; 40 

But if you speak with him that was my son, 



674 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will is law.' 
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
' It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change ! ' 

And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on him : 
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could save, 50 

And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 

' I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 60 

And for your sake, the woman that he chose, 
And for this orphan, I am come to you : 
You know there has not been for these five years 
So full a harvest : let me take the boy, 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.' 

And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 70 

That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 
But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 80 

That grew about, and tied it round his hat 



SELECTIONS FROM TENNYSON. 675 

To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 

Then when the farmer pass'd into the field 

He spied her, and he left his men at work, 

And came and said: ' Where were you yesterday? 

Whose child is that? What are you doing here?' 

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 

And answer'd softly, ' This is William's child ! ' 

' And did I not,' said Allan, ' did I not 

Forbid you, Dora ? ' Dora said again : 90 

' Do with me as you will, but take the child, 

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone ! ' 

And Allan said, ' I see it is a trick 

Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 

I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 

You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 

To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy ; 

But go you hence, and never see me more.' 

So saying, he took the boy that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 100 

At Dora' feet. She bow'd upon her hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field, 
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head 
Remembering the day when first she came, 
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down 
And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise no 

To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, 'My uncle took the boy; 
But, Alary, let me live and work with you : 
He says that he will never see me more.' 
Then answer'd Alary, ' This shall never be, 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself : 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, 
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight 
His mother; therefore thou and I will go, 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home; 120 

And I will beg of him to take thee back: 



676 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

But if he will not take thee back again, 
Then thou and I will live within one house, 
And work for William's child, until he grows 
Of age to help us.' 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. 
The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, 130 

Like one that loved him : and the lad stretch'd out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her : 
And Allan set him down, and Mary said : 

'O Father! — if you let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself, 
Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
For Dora: take her back; she loves you well 140 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said, 
He could not ever rue his marrying me — < 

1 had been a patient wife : but, Sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father thus : 

" God bless him ! " he said, " and may he never know 

The troubles I have gone thro' ! " Then he turn'd 

His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! 

But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you 

Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 150 

His father's memory; and take Dora back, 

And let all this be as it was before. 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in sobs : — 

' I have been to blame — to blame. I have kill'd my son. 
I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my dear son. 
May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children.' 



SELECTIONS FROM TENNYSON. 677 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. 160 

And all the man was broken with remorse; 
And all his love came back a hundred-fold ; 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together; and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 

ULYSSES. 

It little profits that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race, 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 

I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 

Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd 

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 10 

Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known ; cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honor'd of them all ; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met ; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 

Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades 20 

For ever and for ever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! 

As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains : but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 



678 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 30 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 40 

In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port ; the vessel puffs her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, 
Souls that have toil'd and wrought, and thought with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 50 

Death closes all : but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 60 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down ; 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho' 
We are not now that strength which in old days 
Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; 



SELECTIONS FROM TENNYSON. 679 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 70 

MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 

Among the mountains by the winter sea ; 

Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 

Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord, 

King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, 

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, 

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 

A broken chancel with a broken cross, 

That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 10 

On one side lay the ocean, and on one 

Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
'The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 
Shall never more, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 20 

Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 30 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
Holding the sword — and how I rowed across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king: 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

In aftertime, this also shall be known : 

But now delay not : take Excalibur, 

And fling him far into the middle mere : 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word. 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
' It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, 40 

Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.' 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 50 

Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth : 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long- 
That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, 
This way and that dividing the swift mind, 60 

In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
' Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
' I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 70 

And the wild water lapping on the crag.' 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : 
' Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 



SELECTIONS FROM TENNYSON 68 1 

Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: 

For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, 

Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 

This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 

Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 

As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 80 

I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.' 
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 

Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, 

Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; 

But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 

How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 

His palms together, and he cried aloud, 
'And if indeed I cast the brand away, 

Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 

Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, 90 

Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 

What good should follow this, if this were done? 

What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, 

Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 

Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 

An act unprofitable, against himself? 

The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 

What record, or what relic of my lord 

Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 

And rumors of a doubt? but were this kept, 100 

Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, 

Some one might show it at a joust of arms, 

Saying, " King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 

Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 

Upon the hidden bases of the hills." 

So might some old man speak in the aftertime 

To all the people, winning reverence. 

But now much honor and much fame were lost.' 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, no 

And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : 
' What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? ' 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
6 1 heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds/ 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : 
' Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 

Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 120 

Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : 130 

But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my hands.' 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutched the sword, 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 140 

By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : 
5 Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?' 150 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
' Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 



SELECTIONS FROM TENNYSON. 683 

Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 

So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 

Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; 

But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 

That caught him by the hilt and brandish'd him 160 

Three times, and drew him under in the mere.' 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : 
' My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.' 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 170 

Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, ' Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' 180 

But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him, like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black cliff clanged round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 190 

And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Beneath them ; and descending they were ware 

That all the decks were dense with stately forms 

Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 

Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them rose 

A cry that shiverd to the tingling stars, 

And, as it were one voice an agony 200 

Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 

All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 

Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, ' Place me in the barge,' 
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, 210 

And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 
And colorless', and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King; 221 

Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 
From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 
' Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 230 

And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole round table is dissolved 






SELECTIONS FROM TENNYSON. 685 

Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds/ 

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge : 
' The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 240 

And God fulfils Himself in many ways, 
Lest one g'ood custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within Himself make pure ! but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 250 

That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friends? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 260 

Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns 
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.' 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan, 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till t£ie hull 270 

Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 



686 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO TENNYSON. 

The foregoing selections represent Tennyson's exquisite skill 
in lyric verse, romantic story, and classical and mediaeval themes. 
Apart from the mastery of the thought and emotion, which is of 
course the principal object, they will repay the most minute analytic 
and verbal study. The poems all lie within the range of ordinary 
life. There is in the handling of each subject a classic self- 
restraint, which has excluded every superfluous word and ex- 
traneous idea. Tennyson was a consummate artist. Though his 
language is clear, with a noteworthy predominance of the Saxon 
element, there is a studied and infallible aloofness from the com- 
monplace. His observation of nature is exceedingly minute and 
artistic ; he wove into his verse the accurate observations he had 
made on the spot and preserved in his note-books. He had the 
insight of genius which enabled him to select the most felicitous 
word, and in many cases to give to an idea its supreme and final 
expression. In this power he is equaled by Shakespeare alone. 
He was master of poetic technique ; and to give charm to his verse, 
he employed all the resources of alliteration, rhyme, assonance, 
euphony, and adaptation of sound to sense. Every poem exhibits 
patient and toilsome care. 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 

This little poem, which bears the weight of a great sorrow, is a 
lament for Arthur Hallam, in memory of whom the great elegy of 
" In Memoriam " was written a few years later. The scene of the 
poem is Clevedon in Somersetshire, where young Hallam lies buried. 
The Clevedon church, which contains the tomb of Hallam, stands 
on a hill overlooking the wide expanse of water where the Severn 
flows into Bristol Channel, and which seems to be accurately de- 
scribed in the poem. A further description of the locality may be 
read in " In Memoriam," XIX. 

The little poem in question is an interesting study in versifica- 



NOTES TO TENNYSOX. 6S7 

tion. It exemplifies the time element of verse — a matter by no 
means generally understood. " The time element of a poetic foot 
is important, as it explains the seeming' irregularities often met 
with in verse. An extra syllable may be added to a foot or sub- 
tracted from it when the time of the foot or verse is not changed. 
By rapid utterance two syllables are often equal to one, and in this 
way an anapestjs frequently used with the time value of an iambus. 
In like manner a pause may sometimes take the place of an un- 
accented syllable. Both cases are fully illustrated in Tennyson's 
well-known lyric — 

" Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O sea ! " 1 

THE BUGLE SONG. 

For this beautiful song the world is indebted to Ireland. Ten- 
nyson spent some weeks there in 1848, and visited its principal 
points of natural beauty and historic interest. " The echoes of the 
bugle at Killarney, on that loveliest of lakes," as we learn from 
Tennyson's " Memoir," " inspired the song introduced into the 
second edition of ' The Princess,' beginning — 

" ' The splendor falls on castle walls/ 

" Through that song Killarney will be recalled to the memory 
of many who have seen yet half forgotten it. When they read 
those stanzas, and yet more when they hear them fittingly sung, 
they will see again, as in a dream, the reach of its violet colored 
waters where they reflect the ' Purple Mountain,' the ' Elfland ' of 
its Black Valley, Croom-a-doof, the silver river that winds and 
flashes through wood and rock, connecting the mystic ' Upper Lake,' 
and the beetling rock of the Eagle's Nest, with the two larger and 
sunnier but not lovelier lakes." 

In no other single poem has Tennyson more fully exhausted all 
the resources of poetic art. Its rhymes, alliterations, assonances, 
vowel music, and its wedding of sound to sense should be carefully 
considered. The sudden turn of thought in the last stanza, by which 
the outward splendor is associated with a mighty spiritual truth, 
should be fully grasped. Unlike the echoes of the bugle, which 
gradually die away in the distance, — 

1 Painter, "Guide to Literary Criticism," p. in. 



688 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" Our echoes roll from soul to soul 
And grow forever and forever." 

TEARS, IDLE TEARS. 

This poem, a lyric in blank verse, is again a work of deep 
feeling and consummate art. " The passion of the past," Tennyson 
explained, " the abiding in the transient, was expressed in ' Tears, 
Idle Tears,' which was written in the yellowing autumn-tide at 
Tintern Abbey, full for me of its bygone memories. Few know 
that it is a blank verse lyric." 



As pointed out in the sketch of Tennyson, this simple English 
idyl appeared in the volume of 1842. Its general plan was bor- 
rowed from Miss Mitford's novel " Dora Creswell." The language 
is in perfect keeping with the characters. " ' Dora,' being the tale 
of a nobly simple country girl," Tennyson said, " had to be told 
in the simplest possible poetical language, and therefore was one 
of the poems that gave most trouble." Wordsworth paid this 
poem a fine tribute. " Mr. Tennyson," he wrote to the poet, " I 
have been endeavoring all my life to write a pastoral like your 
' Dora,' and have not succeeded." The conclusion may be compared 
with that of George Eliot's " Silas Marner," in which again the 
love for a little child overmasters an obstinate selfishness. 

ULYSSES. 

{The numbers refer to lines.) 

This poem was published in 1842. It is notable for the classic 
severity of its style and the virile vigor of its tone. In this 
latter respect it is the opposite of " The Lotos-Eaters." 
"'Ulysses,'" Tennyson said, as reported by his son, "was written 
soon after Arthur Hallam's death, and gave my feeling about the 
need of going forward, and braving the struggle of life perhaps 
more simply than anything in ' In Memoriam.' " The hero has 
been taken as an embodiment of the restless modern spirit of 
investigation, progress, and conquest. 



NOTES TO TENNYSON. 689 

The idea of the poem is borrowed from Dante's " Inferno," 
Canto XXVI., where we read : " Neither fondness for my son, 
nor piety for my old father, nor the due love that should have 
made Penelope glad, could overcome within me the ardor that 
I had to gain experience of the world, and of the vices of men, 
and of their valor. But I put forth on the deep, open sea, with 
one vessel only, and with that little company by which I had not 
been deserted." (Norton's translation.) 

I. The " idle king " is Ulysses, who ruled over the rocky island 
of Ithaca off the western coast of Greece. He was one of the 
heroes of the Trojan war, in which he distinguished himself for 
his sagacity and eloquence. On his homeward voyage, he en- 
countered many dangers, which form the subject of Homer's 
" Odyssey/' 

3. Mete and dole=z measure and dispense. Cf. Matt. vii:2: 
" With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured unto you." 
The language expresses contempt for the petty duties of his 
sovereignty. 

4. Unequal laws = imperfect laws, unfairly adapted to different 
classes, or springing from arbitrary royal caprice. 

5. Know not me. Ulysses had been absent twenty years; and 
during that period a new generation had grown up, to whom he 
was a stranger. 

7. Life to the lees = life to the dregs. He means that he will 
fathom all the knowledge and experience possible to man. Cf. 
" Macbeth," Act II., Scene 3. 

10. Hyades = a group of seven stars in the head of Taurus, 
the rising and setting of which were believed by the Greeks to 
be attended with heavy rain-fall. 

II. Become a name = have achieved lasting distinction. 

16. With my peers = with foemen worthy of my steel. Cf. 
Scott's " Lady of the Lake," Canto V., 10 : 

"Sir Roderick marked — and in his eyes 
Respect was mingled with surprise, 
And the stern joy which warrior's feel 
In foemen worthy of their steel." 

17. The plain rang with the din of battle. Windy is an epithet 
borrowed from Homer's " Iliad." 



690 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

18. All that he had experienced had entered into his character. 

19. All his experience, instead of satisfying his spirit, awakened 
a longing for the still untraveled regions, whose limits forever 
receded as he moved forward. 

23. An old proverb says, " It is better to wear out than to 
rust out." 

27. The ancient Greek had a gloomy view of the state of the 
dead. Hence every hour of life was so much rescued from 
" that eternal silence " ; and something more than that, it brought 
new knowledge and experience. 

29. With his insatiable thirst for knowledge, Ulysses regarded 
it base to spare and coddle himself for the two or three years, 
or suns, that might remain to him. 

39. Central in sphere = wholly occupied with. 

40. Decent, etc. = observing due propriety in showing kind atten- 
tions to his mother, the faithful Penelope. 

53. The gods, according to Homer, took part in the battles 
before Troy. 

59. Smite the sounding furrows = strike the oars into the hol- 
lows of the beating waves. 

60. Baths, etc. = The Greeks believed that the stars sank into 
the ocean. The expression is equivalent to the unknown west. 

62. Gulfs = whirlpools. 

63. The Happy Islands, or Islands of the Blest, were supposed 
to be situated in the western ocean. It was to these islands 
that the favorites of the gods were supposed to be translated. 

64. Achilles = The Grecian hero who slew Hector. 
66 That strength = that strong body of men. 

68. One equal temper, etc.= heroic hearts of calm determined 
purpose. 

MiORTE D'ARTHUR. 

(The numbers refer to lines.) 

This poem was published in the volume of 1842. It was the 
first work done by Tennyson in connection with the Arthurian 
legends. Supplied with an introduction and conclusion, it is " The 
Passing of Arthur " in " The Idyls of the King." 

King Arthur was a Celtic hero, who fought against the early 
Saxon invaders. What his real character was, it is now impossible 



NOTES TO TENNYSON. 691 

to discover. He has been idealized into a model king, more 
perfect, indeed, than any sovereign known to history. The memory 
of the Celtic hero is preserved in a number of mediaeval books, 
but Tennyson drew his materials chiefly from Sir Thomas Malory's 
" Morte D'Arthur," which was published by Caxton in 1485, and 
which the poet has often followed very closely. 

" How much of history," Tennyson said in a note preserved 
by his son, " we have in the story of Arthur is doubtful. Let 
not my readers press too hardly on details whether for history or 
for allegory. Some think that King Arthur may be taken to 
typify conscience. He is anyhow meant to be a man who spent 
himself in the cause of honor, duty, and self-sacrifice, who felt 
and aspired with his noble knights, though with a clearer and 
stronger conscience than any of them, ' reverencing his conscience 
as his king.' " 

The events immediately preceding the death of Arthur are 
briefly as follows : The guilty love of Queen Guinevere and Lancelot 
had been discovered by Arthur's nephew Modred. The queen had 
secretly fled to the nunnery of Amesbury. During Arthur's absence 
in the north, whither he had gone to make war upon Lancelot, 
Modred had raised a revolt and had himself crowned king. 
Returning southward, the king visited the queen at Amesbury. He 
pursued the rebel to the extreme southwest, where in a final terrible 
battle he slew Modred with his own hand. But the king himself 
received a fatal wound in the encounter. The poem begins im- 
mediately after this fatal combat. 

3. Table = the Knights of the Round Table — an order estab- 
lished by King Arthur. 

4. Lyonnesse = a district contiguous to Cornwall, supposed to be 
covered now by the sea. 

21. Camelot = the city in which Arthur held his court. It is now 
identified with the village of Queen Camel in Somersetshire, where 
traditions of Arthur still linger. 

23. Merlin = the great enchanter of the Arthurian legends. In 
the idyl " Merlin and Vivien " he is described as — 

" The most famous man of all those times, 
Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, 
Had built the king his havens, ships, and halls, 
.Was also bard, and knew the starry heavens." 



6Q2 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

27. Excalibur = cut-steel. The sword had been given to Arthur 
by the Lady of the Lake. It possessed a resistless magic power 
which amply justified its name. 

31. White samite = a. rich silk texture interwoven with threads 
of silver or gold. 

37. Mere = \ake. 

63. Many-knotted = having many joints. 

65. Note the slow, labored movement of this line — an echo of 
the sense. 

70. It has been said that this and the following line contain 
" two of the finest onomatopoeic effects in our language." The 
sound of the water among the reeds and against the rocks could 
not be more exquisitely imitated in words. 

80. Lief— beloved. It has the same root as love. Cf. German 
lieb, dear. 

86. Chased = ornamented with carvings or engravings ; a short- 
ened form of enchased. 

122. Laid widowed = lying bereft. 

140. Moving isles of winter = floating icebergs. 

197. Black-stoled = clothed in loose black robes reaching to the 
feet. 

215. Greaves = armor for the lower part of the legs. Cuisses = 
armor for thighs. Cf. French cuisse, thigh. 

224. The king had just been called "a star of tournament"; 
and with this figure in mind, the poet compares his charging 
througji the lists to the shooting of a meteor. 

233. The holy Elde7-s = the three Magi, or wise men of the East, 
who, following the guidance of the star, brought offerings of gold, 
frankincense, and myrrh to the Babe of Bethlehem. 

236. Which was an image, etc. In Malory we read: "Merlin 
made the Round Table in tokening of the roundness of the world, 
for by the Round Table is the world signified by right." 

263. Crowned with summer sea ■=. surrounded by placid waters 
like a coronet. 

277. This is a reference to the old belief that the swan before 
its death sends forth a sweet song. 



INDEX 



Addison, Joseph, genial humor of, 
121; range of topics, 121; a so- 
cial reformer, 121; education, 
122; attempts at poetry, 122; 
prepares for public service, 122; 
on the Continent, 123; fruits of 
travel, 123; a fine hymn, 123; 
"The Campaign," 124; state serv- 
ice, 124; The Tatler, 125; The 
Spectator, 125; " Cato," 126; mar- 
riage, 127; secretary of state, 127; 
Thackeray's estimate, 127; Sir 
Roger de Coverley papers, with 
notes, 518-532. 

Age of Johnson, a time of transi- 
tion, 141; social advancement, 
141; democratic tendencies, 142; 
growing intelligence, 142; im- 
proved moral tone, 143; altru- 
istic movements, 143; political 
eminence of England, 143; bril- 
liant oratory, 144. 

Age of Scott, favorable to litera- 
ture, 187; growth of democratic 
spirit, 187; literary bloom, 188; 
progressive and conservative tend- 
encies, 188; intellectual advance- 
ment, 189. 

Akenside, Mark, poet, 139. 

" Alexander's Feast," Dryden's, 509- 
513; notes to, 516, 517. 

Alfred the Great, 14; translations, 
15. 

Alison, Sir Archibald, historian, 
246. 

" Anglo-Saxon Chronicle," 20. 

Anglo-Saxon Invasion of Britain, 
8; language, 9; poetry, 10; vari- 
ous poems, 13. 

Anglo-Saxons, character of, 8. 

" Apparition of the Brocken," De 
Quincey's, 628-631; notes to, 635. 



Arnold, Edwin, poet, 245. 

Arnold, Matthew, 245; early poems, 
267; rank as a poet, 268; tone of 
sadness, 268; function of criticism, 
269; secret of his popularity, 269. 

Arnold, Thomas, historian, 246. 

Aschani, Roger, 33. 

Augustan Age, time of Queen Anne, 
99. 

Austen, Jane, novelist, 184. 

Bacon, Francis, rank of, 56; par- 
entage, 56; precocity, 56; univer- 
sity life, 57; travels, 57; law- 
student, 57; in politics, 58; as 
orator, 58; disappointments, 59; 
ingratitude, 59; essays, 59; rapid 
advancement, 60; fall, 60; his 
philosophy, 60; " Instauratio Mag- 
na," 61; greatness, 62; selections 
from the essays, with notes, 386- 
400. 

Baillie, Joanna, poet and drama- 
tist, 184. 

Ballads, old English, 37; "Chevy 
Chase," 38; of Robin Hood, 38. 

Barbauld, Anna Letitia, poet, 184. 

" Battle of Brunanburh, The." 317- 
320; notes to, 320, 321. 

Baxter, Richard, 75. 

Beattie, James, a poet, quoted, 149. 

Beaumont, quoted on Shakespeare, 
66. 

Beaumont and Fletcher, 34. 

Bede, the father of English prose, 
13; his "Ecclesiastical History," 
14. 

Ben Jonson, 45; quoted on Bacon, 
58; on Shakespeare, 66. 

" Beowulf," 12. 

Boswell, James, biographer, 140. 

Boyle, Robert, scientist, 95. 



693 



694 



INDEX. 



" Break, break, break," Tennyson's, 
671; notes to, 686. 

Bronte, Charlotte, novelist, 256; her 
sad life, 257; critique of, 257. 

Browne, Sir Thoinas, 75. 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 245; 
rank of, 264; indomitable energy, 
264; volumes of 1S44, 265; "Son- 
nets from the Portuguese," 266; 
"Aurora Leigh," 266; character- 
istics, 267. 

Browning, Robert, originality of, 
283; parentage, 283; period of un- 
rest, 283; "Pauline," 284; "Para- 
celsus," 284; " Sordello," 285; 
"Bells and Pomegranates," 285; 
"My Last Duchess," 286; funda- 
mental ideas, 287; marriage, 287; 
"Men and Women," 287; "Dram- 
atis Personae," 288; "The Ring 
and the Book," 288; fondness for 
Greek, 289; peculiarity of method, 
289; closing years, 289; a great 
teacher, 290; selections from, with 
notes, 649-6G4. 

" Bugle Song, The," Tennyson's, 671; 
notes to, CS7. 

Bulwer, Edward, Eord Eytton, nov- 
elist, 243. 

Bunyan, John, 81; "The Pilgrim's 
Progress," 31. 

Burke, Edmund, orator and states- 
man, 14 1. 

Burnet, Gilbert, Bishop of Salis- 
bury, 95; quoted on Waller, 83. 

Burns, Robert, poetic genius of, 171; 
tragic life, 171; youthful years, 
171; in love, 172; "Mary Mori- 
son," 173; a great ambition, 173; 
aownward course, 173; efforts to 
reform, 174; poetic activity, 175; 
first volume, 175; in Edinburgh, 
176; independence, 176; exciseman 
and farmer, 1 77; solace in poetry, 
177; "Highland Mary," 178; the 
sublime of life, 178; sympathy 
with France, 179; closing days, 
179; death, 180; devoutness, 180; 
sensibility, 181; "The Cotter's 
Saturday Night," " To a Mouse," 
" To a Mountain Daisy," with 
notes, 576-589. 



Butler, Joseph, theologian, 95. 

Butler, Samuel, and his " Hudi- 
bras," 107. 

Byron, Lord, personal element in 
poetry, 212; poetic characteris- 
tics, 212; parentage, 212; early 
romance, 213; at the university, 
213; "English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers," 213; " Childe Har- 
old's Pilgrimage," 214; poetical 
romances, 214; life in London, 
215; marriage and separation, 
215; voluntary exile, 216; new era 
of authorship, 216; "Prisoner of 
Chillon," 217; various other 
works, 217; critique of, 218; the 
Greek revolution, 219; sense of 
failure, 220; "The Prisoner of 
Chillon," with notes, 598-611. 

Caedmon, 11; his paraphrase of 

Scripture, 11. 

Campbell, Thomas, poet, 191. 

Carew, Thomas, quoted, 83. 

Carlyle, Thomas, quoted on De 
Quincey, 237; faith in heredity, 
292;. at the university, 292; dis- 
like of teaching, 293; doubt and 
unbelief, 293; "The Everlasting 
Tea," 293; literary career, 293; 
marriage, 294; great essays, 2.95; 
"Sartor Resartus," 295; change 
of popular sentiment, 296; style, 
296; "French Revolution," 297; 
courses of lectures, 297; "Past 
and Present," 298; "Cromwell's 
Letters and Speeches," 298; 
"Frederick the Great," 299; uni- 
versity rector, 299; deepening 
gloom, 300; love of truth, 300; 
his message, 301; selection from, 
with notes, 665-670. 

Caxton, William, printer, 33. 

Celts, in Britain, 7. 

Charles I., policy of, 77; royalist 
party, ''.3. 

Chancer, Geoffrey, his pre-emi- 
nence, 25; early life, 26; various 
offices, 26; in misfortune, 27; pen 
portrait of, 28; character and 
attainments, 28; love of nature, 
29; literary equipment, 29; "Can- 



INDEX. 



695 



terbury Tales," 30; "The Pro- 
logue," 30; " The Prologue," with 
notes, 322-361. 

Civil War in England, 80. 

Clough, Arthur HughJ poet, 244. 

Clubs in London, 102. 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 197; 
"The Ancient Mariner," 197; a 
fascinating talker, 198; aims and 
work, 199. 

Collier, Jeremy, 95. 

Collins, William, poet, 139. 

Collins, Wilkie, novelist, 243. 

Congreve, William, 96. 

Constitutional government, period 
of, 100. 

" Cotter's Saturday Night," Burns, 
576-582; notes to, 586-588. 

Cowley, Abraham, 83; Pope on, 84. 

Cowper, William, poet, 140. 

Crabbe, George, poet, 140. 

Craik, Dinah Maria, novelist, 244^ 

Cromwell, as Lord Protector, 80. 

Cudworth, Ralph, 95. 

Daniel, Samuel, poet, 33. 

Darwin, Charles, naturalist, 246. 

Defoe, Daniel, founder of the novel, 
105; his "Robinson Crusoe," 105. 

Dekker, Thomas, dramatist, 34. 

De Quincey, Thomas, characteristics 
of, 234; parentage, 234; at school, 
234; entry into the world, 235; 
at the university, 235; a victim 
of opium, 236; at Grasmere, 236; 
life in Lake District, 236; "Con- 
fessions of an Opium Eater," 236; 
relations with Carlyle, 237; 
"Murder as a Fine Art," 237; 
suffering and struggle, 238; quali- 
ties of style, 238; range of sub- 
jects, 239; literature of knowl- 
edge and power, 239; frequent 
digressions, 239; intellectual life, 
240; closing scene, 240; "Appari- 
tion of the Brocken," and " Sa- 
vannah-la-Mar," with notes, 628- 
636. 

" Deserted Village, The," Gold- 
smith's, 562-572; notes to, 573- 
575. 



Dickens, Charles, worKS of, 244; 
parentage, 262; "David Copper- 
field," 263; "Pickwick," 263; 
critique of, 264. 

Disraeli, Benjamin, Earl of Bea- 
consfield, novelist and statesman, 

, 243. 

Dobson, Henry Austen, poet, 245. 

"Dora," Tennyson's, 672-677; notes 
to, 688. 

Drama, origin of, 43; miracle plays, 
43; moralities, 43; first comedy 
and tragedy, 43; decline of, in 
Puritan period, 81. 

Drayton, Michael, poet, 33. 

Dryden, John, rank in literature, 
111; absence of high aims, 111; 
early years, 111; education, 112; 
writing for the stage, 112; heroic 
style, 113; intellectual traits, 113; 
"Absalom and Achitophel," 114; 
Religio Laid, 115; "Art of Poet- 
ry," 115; conversion to Catholi- 
cism, 116; " Hind and Panther," 
116; "Mac Flecknoe," 117; trans- 
lations, 117; admiration of Chau- 
cer, 118; " Alexander's Feast," 
118; his prose, 118; poetic short- 
comings, 119; mode of writing, 
119; "Song for St. Cecilia's Day" 
and " Alexander's Feast," with 
notes, 506-517. 

Edgeworth, Maria, novelist, 184. 

Education, advancement in, during 
Victorian Age, 250. 

Eliot, George, essayist and novelist, 
257; distinguished friends, 258; 
"Scenes from Clerical Life," 258: 
"Adam Bede," 259; other works, 
259; nobleness of aim, 260. 

Elizabethan Age, 40; lyrics, 42. 

England, social condition in 13th 
and 14th centuries, 19; literary 
expansion in this period, 20. 

English, sources of modern, 25. 

Environment, influence of, in litera- 
ture, 2. 

Epoch, influence of, in literature, 2. 

" Essay on Criticism," Pope's, 533- 
550; notes to, 551-555. 



696 



INDEX. 



Essay writing, 253. 

"Evelyn Hope," Browning's, 652- 

654; notes to, 663. 
Evelyn, John, diarist, 104. 
Evolution, influence of theory of, 

250. 

" Faery Queene," First Book of, 
362-378; notes to, 379-385. 

Fantastic Poets, 82; Carew quoted, 
83; happy trifles, 83; Cowley and 
Waller, 83. 

Farquhar, George, 96. 

Fiction, prominence of to-day, 254. 

Fielding, Henry, and his novels, 
106. 

First Creative Period, preceding 
barrenness, 35; intellectual awak- 
ening, 35; inventions and discov- 
eries, 36; the Reformation, 36. 

First Critical Period, a violent re- 
action, 97; reign of the flesh, 97; 
French influence, 98; natural 
science, 99; a time of transition, 
99; Augustan Age, 99; constitu- 
tional government, 100; state of 
society, 100. 

Freeman, Edwin Augustus, quoted 
on "A. S. Chronicle," 20; his- 
torian, 246. 

French influence in First Critical 
Period, 98. 

Froude, James A., historian and 
essayist, 246. 

Gibbon, Edward, historian, 147. 

Gleeman, Anglo-Saxon, 9. 

Goldsmith, Oliver, genius and folly 
of, 161; gift for blundering, 161; 
childhood, 162; the village school, 
162; at college, 163; desultory 
life, 163; failures, 163; law and 
medicine, 164; on the Continent, 
164; return to England, 165; lit- 
erary success, 165; improvidence, 
166; "Vicar of Wakefield," 166; 
"The Traveller," 166; "The 
Good-natured man," 167; hack 
work, 167; "The Deserted Vil- 
lage," 168; "She Stoops to Con- 
quer," 168; Thackeray's esti- 



mate, 169; "The Deserted Vil- 
lage," with notes, 562-575. 

" Gorboduc," the first tragedy, 44. 

Gosse, Edmund, quoted on Burke, 
145. 

Gower, John, and his writings, 24. 

Gray, Thomas, poet, 139. 

Green, John Richard, quoted on 
Puritanism, 81; historian, 246. 

Greene, Robert, dramatist, 34. 

Grote, George, historian, 246. 

11 al lam, Henry, historian, 190; 

quoted on Gower, 25. 
Hamilton, Sir William, Scotch met- 
aphysician, 247. 
"Happy," Carlyle's, 665-668; notes 

to, 669-670. 
Hazlitt, William, essayist, 183, 189. 
Hemans, Felicia Dorothea, poet and 

dramatist, 184. 
Herbert, George, poet, 75. 
Herrick, Robert, poet, 75; quoted, 

83. 
" Herve Riel," Browning's, 656-661; 

notes to, 664. 
Historical Writing at present, 254. 
Hobbes, Thomas, philosopher, 95. 
" Home-Thoughts from Abroad," 

Browning's, 654; notes to, 663. 
Hood, Thomas, poet and humorist, 

184. 
Hooker, Richard, theologian, 33. 
" How They Brought the Good News 

from Ghent to Aix," Browning's, 

650-652; notes t->, 662. 
" Hudibras," Butler's, a satire on 

the Puritans, 107. 
Hume, David, historian, 145. 
Hunt, Eeigh, r^velist, 183, 190. 
Huxley, Thomas Ilenry, biologist, 

247. 
Hyde, Edward, Earl of Clarendon, 

75. 

"II Penseroso," Milton's, 493-497; 

notes to, 502-505. 
" Intimations of Immortality," 

Wordsworth's Ode, 617-622; notes 
to, 624-627. 
Inventions, in Victorian Age, 249. 



INDEX. 



697 



Jeffrey, Francis, critic, 189. 

Johnson, Samuel, our intimate 
knowledge of, 151; in conversa- 
tion, 152; early years, 152; at the 
university, 152; marriage, 153; 
days of trial, 153; reports of Par- 
liament, 154; his satire "Lon- 
don," 154; biography of Savage, 
154; "Dictionary," 155; "Vanity 
of Human Wishes," 155; "Irene," 
156; The Rambler, 156; " Rasse- 
las," 157; pension, 157; in the 
club, 158; "Journey to the Hebri- 
des," 158; "Lives of t'he Poets," 
159; closing scenes, 159; "Letter 
to the Earl of Chesterfield " and 
" The Journey of Life," with 
notes, 556-561. 

" Journey of Life, The," Johnson's, 
557-560; notes to, 561. 

Keats, John, poet, 192. 
Kehle, John, poet, 185. 
Kingsley, Charles, poet and novel- 
ist, 243. 

" L'Allegro," Milton's, 489-492; notes 
to, 498-502. 

Lamb, Charles, essayist, 183, 189. 

Landor, Walter Savage, poet, 185. 

Lang, Andrew, poet and prose 
writer, 245. 

Langland, and " Piers the Plow- 
man," 23. 

Lecky, W. E. H., historian, 246. 

" Letter to the Earl of Chester- 
field," Johnson's, 556-557; notes 
to, 560. 

Literature, denned, 1; national, 1; 
English, 1; moulding influences, 
1; race, epoch, and environment 
in, 2; personal element in, 3; in 
restricted sense, 3; importance of, 
4; Puritanism and literature, 80; 
present diffusive character, 253. 

Locke, John, 104. 

Lockhart, John Gibson, critic and 
biographer, 183, 190. 

Longfellow, Henry W., quoted, on 
Chaucer, 26; on Tennyson, 314. 

" Lost Leader, The," Browning's, 
649, 650; notes to, 662. 



Lyly, John, 33. 

Lyrical poems in Middle English 

Period, 21. 
Lytton, Lord ("Owen Meredith"), 

poet and novelist, 244. 

Macaulay, Thomas Babington, pop- 
ularity of, 275; childish precocity, 
275; at the university, 276; " Es- 
say on Milton," 276; in Parlia- 
ment, 276; an insatiable reader, 
277; work in India, 277; a tour in 
Italy, 278; his essays, 278; style, 
279; partisan attitude, 280; 
" Lays of Ancient Rome," 280; 
method as historian, 280; " His- 
tory of England," 281; closing 
years, 281; sterling worth of, 282; 
quoted on Milton, 86; quoted on 
Addison, 121; quoted on Johnson, 
155; "Trial of Warren Hastings," 
with notes, 637-648. 

Macpherson, James, author of 
" Poems of Ossian," 148. 

Marlowe, Christopher, dramatist, 33. 

Marryat, Frederick, novelist, 243. 

Marsh, quoted, on " Piers the Plow- 
man," 24. 

Massinger, Philip, dramatist, 34. 

" Merchant of Venice," Shake- 
speare's, 401-469; notes to, 470- 
488. 

Methodism, rise of, 102. 

Mill, John Stuart, philosopher, 247. 

Miller, Hugh, geologist, 247. 

Milman, Henry Hart, historian, 246. 

Milton, John, solitary grandeur of, 
85; early years, 85; period of 
study, 85; some famous poems of, 
86; " Lycidas," 87; on the Conti- 
nent, 87; premonitions of great- 
ness, ' 88; his private school, 88; 
"Tractate on Education," 90; 
" Tenure of Kings," 91; political 
controversy, 91; blindness, 91; 
solitude and dejection, 96; " Para- 
dise Lost," 92; other poems, 93; 
character of, 93; "L'Allegro," 
and " II Penseroso," with notes, 
489-505. 

Miracle Plays, 43. 

Mitford, William, historian, 190. 



INDEX. 



Moore, Thomas, poet, 194; "Irish 
Melodies," 195; " Lalla Rookh," 
195. 

Moralities, The, 43. 

More, Hannah, poet and novelist, 
184. 

More, Sir Thomas, 39; his "Utopia," 
39. 

Morris, William, poet, 244. 

" Morte D' Arthur," Tennyson's, 679- 
685; notes to, 690-692. 

Myers, F. W. H., quoted on Words- 
worth, 229. 

" My Last Duchess," Browning's, 
655-656; notes to, 663. 

Natural Science in England, 99. 
Newton, Sir Isaac, 95. 
Norman Conquest, 19. 
Normans, The, 18; coalesce with 
the Anglo-Saxons, 19. 

" Ormulum," 23. 

Pepys, Samuel, diarist, 104. 

Percy, Bishop, author of "Reliques 
of English Poetry," 148. 

Periodicals established, 102. 

Pope, Alexander, quoted, 101; pre- 
eminence of, 129; childhood, 129; 
reading, 129; poetic apprentice- 
ship, 130; "Essay on Criticism," 
131; literary friends, 132; "The 
Rape of the Lock," 132; transla- 
tion of the ' Iliad," 133; satire 
on Addison, 133; at Twickenham, 
134; filial piety, 135; "The Dun- 
ciad," 135; " Essay on Man," 135; 
last illness, 136; personal appear- 
ance, 136; traits of character, 
137; estimate of genius, 137; 
" Essay on Criticism," with notes, 
533-555. 

Porter, Jane, novelist, 184. 

Press, influence of, 251. 

" Prisoner of Chillon," Byron's, 
598-608; notes to, 609-611. 

Progress, in Victorian Age, 249. 

"Prologue, The," of Chaucer, 322- 
344; notes to, 345-361. 

Puritan Period, 77; importance of, 
77; civil and religious conflict, 



77; royalist party, 78; Puritan 
party, 79; defenders of liberty, 
79; Cromwell, 80. 
Puritanism and literature, 80. 

Quarles, Francis, 75; quoted, 83. 

Race, influence of, in literature, 2. 

Raleigh, Sir Walter, 41; his "His- 
tory of the World," 41. 

" Ralph Royster Doyster," the first 
comedy, 43. 

Reade, Charles, novelist, 243. 

Realism, nature of, 254, 255. 

Religion and Literature, 22. 

Reformation, The, 36; relation to 
literature, 37. 

Restoration, The, evil influence, 97; 
and natural science, 99. 

Richardson, Samuel, and his novels, 
106. 

Robertson, William, historian, 146. 

Robin Hood, 38; Walter Scott's es- 
timate of, 38. 

" Robinson Crusoe," 105. 

Rogers, Samuel, poet, 185. 

Roman Conquest of Britain, 7. 

Romanticism, The New, 255. 

Romantic Movement, 147. 

Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, poet, 245. 

Ruskin, John, works of, 247; resem- 
blance to Carlyle, 270; parentage, 
270; art critic, 271; "The Seven 
Lamps," 271; "Sesame and 
Lilies," 271; estimate of his work, 
272. 

Sackville, Thomas, poet, 33. 

" Savannah-la-Mar," De Quincey's, 
632-634; notes to, 636. 

Scientific investigation, in Victo- 
rian Age, 250. 

Scott, Sir Walter, literary rank of, 
202; ancestry, 202; childhood, 203; 
romantic tastes, 203; as a law- 
yer, 203; "Minstrelsy of the 
Scottish Border," 204; "The Last 
Minstrel," 204; poetio characteris- 
tics, 205; lyric faculty, 205; meth- 
od of work, 206; baronial resi- 
dence, 206; bad business ventures, 
206; heroic courage, 207; "Wa- 



INDEX. 



699 



verley," 207; the historical novel, 
208; scope of his power, 208; 
sweep of style, 208; magic wand 
broken, 209; the closing scene, 
209; "The Talisman," with notes, 
590-597. 

Shakespeare, William, few details 
of, 63; Saxon-Norman descent, 
63; education, 63; marriage, 64; 
in London, 64; his ability recog- 
nized, 65; business sagacity, 65; 
social life of, 65; aspirations, 66; 
retirement to Stratford, 66; inner 
life, 67; range of intellects, 67; 
rare sanity of, 68; development of 
his genius, 68; personality hidden, 
69; mastery of dramatic art, 69; 
borrowed materials, 70; types of 
character, 70; style, 71; poetic 
gems, 71; influence, 72; "The 
Merchant of Venice," with notes, 
401-488. 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe, poet, 196; as 
reformei% 196. 

Shenstone, William, poet, 140. 

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, orator 
and dramatist, 139. 

Sidney, Sir Philip, 40; " Defense of 
Poesie," 40. 

" Sir Roger de Coverley " papers, 
518-528; notes to, 529-532. 

Smith, Adam, political economist, 
140. 

Social progress, in Victorian Age, 
252. 

" Song: for St. Cecilia's Day," Dry- 
den's, 506-508; notes to, 514-515. 

Southey, Robert, poet, 193; prose 
writings, 194. 

Spencer, Herbert, evolutionist phi- 
losopher, 247. 

Spenser, Edmund, 47; his position, 
47; biographic details, 47; at 
Cambridge, 47; "The Shepherd's 
Calendar," 48; in Ireland, 48; 
visited by Raleigh, 49; disap- 
pointment at court, 49; "Faery 
Queene," 50, 51; marriage, 50; 
death of, 51; character, 51; Spen- 
serian stanza, 52; as poet, 54; 
first book of " Faery Queene," 
with notes, 362-385. 



Steele, Sir Richard, 96, 102. 
Stevenson, Robert Louis, novelist, 

243. 
Surrey and Wyat, 39. 
Swift, Jonathan, 103. 
Swinburne, Algernon Charles, poet, 

245. 

"Talisman, The," Scott's, 590-595; 
notes to, 596, 597. 

Taylor, Jeremy, 75. 

" Tears, Idle Tears," Tennyson's, 
672; notes to, 688. 

Temple, Sir William, 96. 

Tennyson, Alfred, pre-eminence of, 
303; consecration to his art, 303; 
youthful period, 303; opening of 
literary career, 304; the volume 
of 1832, 305; blessedness of love, 
306; silence and study, 306; visits 
to London, 307; volume of 1S42, 
307; secret of its charm, 308; 

. " The Princess," 309; conservative 
sympathies, 310; "In Memoriam," 
310; modern thought, 311; love of 
nature, 311; "Maud and Other 
Poems," 311; " Idyls of the King," 
312; "Enoch Arden," 312; the 
closing scene, 313; enduring fame, 
313; selections from, with notes, 
671-692. 

Tillotson, John, Archbishop of Can- 
terbury, 95. 

" Tintern Abbey," Wordsworth's, 
612-616; notes to, 623, 624. 

Thackeray, William Makepeace, 
works of, 244; parallel with Dick- 
•ens, 260; a prince of realists, 261; 
poetic skill, 261; estimate of Ad- 
dison, 127; estimate of Gold- 
smith, 169. 

Theatres, The Early, 44. 

Thirlwall, Connop, historian, 246. 

Thompson, James, the poet of the 
seasons, 108. 

" To a Mountain Daisy," Burns, 
584-585; notes to, 589. 

"To a Mouse," Burns, 582, 583; 
notes to, 588. 

" Tom Jones," Fielding's great 
novel, 106. 

" Trial of Warren Hastings," Ma- 



7oo 



INDEX. 



caulay's, 637-646; notes to, 647, 
648. 
Trollope, Anthony, novelist, 243. 

"Ulysses," Tennyson's, 677; notes 

to. 688. 
" Utopia," of Sir Thomas More, 39. 

" Vicar of Wakefield, The," 166. 

Victorian Age, The, 249; human 
progress in, 249; an age of in- 
vention, 249; scientific investiga- 
tion, 250; evolution, 250; a prac- 
tical age, 250; educational ad- 
vancement, 250; periodical press, 
251; international relations, 251; 
political progress, 251 ; social prog- 
ress, 252; historical writing in, 
254; realism, 254; new romanti- 
cism, 255; poetry in, 255. 

Waller, Edmund, 83; Bishop Bar- 
net on, 83. 

Walpole, Horace, novelist, 140; his 
" Castle of Otranto," 148. 

Walton, Isaac, 82; "Complete An- 
gler," 82. 

Wart on, Thomas, 140; "History of 
English Poetry," 148. 

Watson, William, poet, 245. 



Webster, John, dramatist, 34. 

Wilson, John ("Christopher 
North"), essayist, 183, 190. 

Witchcraft, Belief in, 101. 

Woman in literature, 190. 

Wordsworth, William, a parallel 
with Byron, 222; childhood, 222; 
influence of nature, 223; period of 
.indecision, 223; revolutionary 
sympathies, 224; first volume, 
224; ridicule and satire, 225; in 
Germany, 225; poetical canons, 
226; critique of, 226; life in Lake 
District, 227; "The Happy War- 
rior," 227; his philosophy of life, 
228; " Ode on Immortality," 229; 
at Rydal Mount, 230; confidence 
in his genius, 230; recognition at 
home, 231; natural gifts and ob- 
servation, 231; view of nature, 
232; " Tintern Abbey," and "In- 






timations of Immortality,' 

notes, 612-627. 
Wyat, Sir Thomas, 39. 
Wycherly, William, 96. 
Wycliffe, 22. 

Young:, Edward, 108; his ' 
Thoughts," 109. 



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